


Minotaur

by FamiliarInAStrangerLand



Category: ICO (Video Game)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Language Barrier, Ten Years Later, Unofficial Sequel, Worldbuilding, barefoot, barefooter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:34:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24897016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FamiliarInAStrangerLand/pseuds/FamiliarInAStrangerLand
Summary: Ten years later, Ico and Yorda live as farmers and traders travelling across the land. But the legacy of horned children isn't done with them yet. Old superstitions arise, and they will both have to confront their pasts. They will learn new things about each other.
Relationships: Ico/Yorda (ICO)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

The city of Arskel was built around a dusty hill. Weaving alleyways crisis-crossed up and down in a disorientating fashion, and the main streets were no better. After living in this city for five years, one could develop a general sense of which way the top of the hill was. For everyone else, at least the commercial district was more or less straightforward.

A woman sat beneath the blue canopy of her market stall, flashing cheerful smiles at the passers-by. “Pottery!” she announced. “I sell good pottery!” She stood up, glancing at the protecting net around the side of her stall. A few mounds of sand had crept through and pooled in one pot. She rolled her eyes and began emptying it. “Do people have need for pottery in city?” she asked herself.

“Oh, excuse me?” croaked a man’s voice. The woman gasped and slipped towards the counter. Her skin was fairer than his, and her dress fairer still. Her hair flashed dark grey in the shadows, though her long, pointed ears stood out within. A thin, black shawl draped over her shoulders.

She flashed him a smile. “Hello, sir!” she said with a high, gentle voice filled with childlike energy, filtered through an accent he had never heard before. “You come for pottery?” The man stood quite stout, with furrowed eyes glinting through his long, frayed beard. Green cloth covered everything besides that, and his tanned right hand held a long, crooked stick against the floor.

“Yes, it’s about time we had a good water basin,” he mused. “How much for your tallest?”

The woman laughed. “Um…” Her eyes flicked upwards, where she caught a flurry of flies nestled beneath the canopy. She winced and looked away. “Ten, ten coins,” she decided. “So sorry, I not remember what we charge for this!”

The man leaned back. Even for a foreigner, her understanding of the common tongue was unusually sloppy. “Where are you from, young lady?” His other hand dug in his satchel. She could hear the rustling of gold between his fingers.

“Oh, long story,” she said. “I come from place that no longer exist! My mother, taught me dead, cursed language. Now, it’s been ten years, and I still not understand common.” She laughed at herself. Whatever frustration she must have felt with her linguistic shortcomings were, apparently, long past her. “I am Yorda,” she said.

“For a non-native speaker,” mused the man, “you do like talking.” His hand slammed the counter, sliding away to reveal ten gold coins.

Yorda chuckled, swiping the coins beneath the counter. “Oh, it’s practice,” she said, turning to grab the tallest pot. “When I tired or angry with husband, I speak in dead language.” She grabbed it by the chamber, holding it close to her chest as she returned. The man turned to watch Yorda carry it around the counter and lay it in front of him with a thud. “Sometimes,” she whispered, “I try and curse in common. Maybe I forget dead language pretty soon.”

“Thank you, young lady,” said the man, shuffling to pick up the pot. Watching him, Yorda imagined his free hand couldn’t wrap itself properly around the chamber, unless he was okay with dragging it with him.

“You want help?”

The man looked at her, and noticed for the first time that she wasn’t wearing sandals. “Um, no thank you,” he muttered in bewilderment. “I don’t want you getting hurt.”

“Oh?” She realised that she could feel the dusty cobbles underfoot, and laughed again. “Oops! I get so comfortable in stall, it’s like second home.” She swung back around the counter, and returned with thick sandals bound to her feet. “Will I ever learn?”

The man chortled grandfatherly. “Okay, I’ve got a wagon just around the corner.” He led the way, turning to another avenue of the city while Yorda followed, angling the pot so it didn’t completely cover her eyes.

That was the most eventful thing to happen all day. Yorda spent the next few hours sitting at her stall, fidgeting, glancing repeatedly at the empty stool at the opposite corner. “ _It’s not like him to miss this,”_ she whispered in her mother’s language. _“Is he still worried about the anniversary?”_

Soon, the sky faded to orange, the civilians thinning out. Yorda jumped at the chance to pack her pots into their crates, throw a canvas over them, and pack her bags for the journey home. She remembered to pull on her sandals this time, though she still hesitated to do it. “No, not same without him,” she said to herself as she looked at the stall one last time, before disappearing around a corner.

She followed the street downhill, where the mules were travelling with their luggage. The buildings and houses of Arskel were built from mud, but towered so high that it made navigation unreliable without gut instinct. She and her husband had been coming here for two weeks, and he managed to adjust to it, more or less. He would guide her by the hand, picking the right alleyways, right junctions and the correct bridges to take them out of the city. Without him, as she expected, she found herself in a part of town she hadn’t seen before.

All around her, civilians grouped together in a sprawling crowd. Seeing so many people in one place choked her heart with panic. It eased when she realised they weren’t moving about anywhere. There was a general murmur about them, and she quickly realised they were gathering around something. Anxiety became curiosity. Yorda found a small opening between a turban man and his kimono-wearing wife.

Her head poked through the crowd, and saw a tall man wrapped in black standing by a wooden gate. He stood perfectly still, holding a crimson cape over his mouth. The tips of his moustache peaked above it. Sensing the stillness of the crowd, she shrugged the bag off her shoulders, and absent-mindedly slipped one foot out of its sandal while nobody was looking.

The commotion died entirely. The black-dressed man’s eyes darted around him. “People of Arskel,” he whispered, his words carrying all across the plaza, “have you heard tales of the Queen of Horns?”

Yorda’s heart froze. She pulled the sandal back on. The general murmur among the crowd carried variations of ‘No’ all around her.

“Once upon a time,” said the man, throwing aside his cape as he paraded around his space, “there was a wicked queen in a sinister castle. This castle was sealed from the world by a long, extended bridge, and for the longest time, nobody had seen that bridge out. The only way in was by boat, but only the Royal Ferrymen were allowed in.” He climbed up a small ramshackle platform, spun on his heels and spread out his arms. “Does this ring a bell with anybody?”

 _“All too well,”_ Yorda whispered to herself.

“Ain’t they the folks who took horned kids to be sacrificed?” cried an older woman from the crowd.

“Right you are, ma’am,” declared the black-dressed man. “Right you are! These Ferrymen were sent by order of the Emperor himself to any village with a horned child.” He fell silent, listening to the uncomfortable silence among the crowd. “How many of you had children with horns?” His head rotated around, scanning every individual he could make out. “No, don’t answer that,” he added quickly. “No doubt the pain is still fresh in your hearts. You have my sympathies.”

 _“Get to the point,”_ muttered Yorda, picking up her bag.

“Ten years ago to this day,” he continued, “the castle fell into the sea. The queen, as far as we know, perished with it. For all we knew, that meant peace had returned to our land.” He hung his head low. “As it turned out, that was when the trouble really started.”

The gate began to rise.

“Horned children were still born,” said the man. “And every time, there would be droughts, floods, infestations of locusts! Any travesty you name, it still happened, heralded by those accursed young’uns!” His voice picked up in volume and pitch. He marched towards the gate, screaming his words. “We’ve had to do some unforgivable things to appease the gods! But I have some bad news, people of Arskel.”

The gate vanished into the wall. The man stood by its side. As Yorda watched, something emerged from the shadows within.

“Ten years since that fateful day, one horned child has grown to a man!”

The thing that stormed out of the gate looked like a bull, with white, pointed horns and long, black hair covering every inch of him. As his figure emerged, Yorda realised he was standing upright, on human-like legs. His nose had become a rounded snout, and his eyes were unmistakable human. The fear in them could not be ignored. His mouth made grunts and snorts, yet she thought she could hear words. “He… Help… Help…”

Yorda broke from the crowd and fled the plaza. The fear had taken her heart once again, and she found herself sobbing uncontrollably. Ahead lay the path out the city, to the forest she was so used to. Behind her, the man continued. “People of Arskel, I am The Matador, and I will end this godforsaken curse with your support! This will be the end of the horned children!”

The rapturous applause drowned out what he had to say after that.

Yorda ran until she could no longer hear the sounds of Arskel. Even when her surroundings were the lush greens of meadows and forests, she could still hear mumbles and cheers amidst her panting and heavy heartbeats. Finally, it stopped, and she doubled over in exhaustion, tears dripping around her sandals. “ _That can’t be the fate of horned children,_ ” she said to herself. “ _My Ico is not a cursed animal. There has to be an explanation for this._ ” She let out a sigh, her breathing regulating. “He must know,” she said in common.

She pinched off her sandals and carried on running, feeling the pressures of city standards ease step by step. Like always, she fought the temptation to throw them into the bushes and risk losing them forever. High societies like Arskel’s were strangely suffocating, she found. Under her mother’s wing, she was only ever a meek, frail thing that would not survive in the outside world. _I guess I’m just willing to do whatever I can to prove her wrong,_ she thought. _Even if it means compromising parts of my nature._

Her heart lifted as she saw their hut, sat alone in a slanted field. She walked past the crops as her lungs recovered, musing at the rows upon rows of turnips and cauliflower planted in them. At least he’d put today to good use. She smiled, and forgot the urgency of her flight home for a brief but welcome moment. It hit her again the moment her bag hit the floor, and she gasped in shock again. “ICO!” she yelled.

A man’s voice yawned from the dining room. She turned to see the silhouette of her husband fill the doorway. “Did work go okay, Yorda?” he asked. His ignorance to her panic and dread was incredibly frustrating. When he stepped out of the shadows, still wearing the blue turban over his horn nubs, she could see the realisation in his eyes. “Hey, what happened?”

She threw herself into his arms, sobbing into his shoulder as his stubble scratched the back of her head. “It’s, it’s…” she stammered, forcing words out that never came naturally to her to begin with. “There’s danger, Ico. A bad man who, who hates horned children.”

“What?” He stepped back from her, his face frozen with shock. “There are still horned children out there?”

She nodded and wiped her nose. “He says they cause bad things to people, like-”

“Crop failings and natural disasters?” For the past ten years, he thought the era he’d been born into was finally over, even if his natural instincts insisted otherwise. To imagine that the Castle’s destruction had changed nothing felt unreal. That couldn’t be the case.

“Worse,” she said, looking into his eyes. “He says when children grow up, they become monsters.” She looked at him, her eyes starting to dry. She forced a smile. “B-but, you’re _not_ a monster, Ico. He can’t be true.”

For the first time she could remember, Ico loosened the turban and dropped it to the floor. The nubs of his horns still poked from his hair, ten years later. A part of him expected them to simply fall out after their adventure. When that didn’t happen, he convinced himself they felt numb, and weren’t a part of him anymore. After all, they were a curse inflicted on him, weren’t they? “Could you,” he said hesitantly, “touch them?”

Yorda looked at him in confusion. “You’re thinking of that _now_?”

“Wh-no!” he hastened to add with a blush. “Just the horns, sorry.”

With a bewildered grimace that did nothing to hide the fear in her eyes, Yorda reached out and stroked the broken tip of his right horn with her fingers. A hiss slipped through his gritted teeth. He could feel her fingertips make contact, sliding against the crags of calcium out of his cranium, her thumb gripping the coarse, slightly cracked side. “I knew it,” he muttered as she pulled her hand away. “They are still a part of me.”

Yorda watched him kneel down to grab his turban. “I think he is liar,” she said hopefully. “We can find what monster really is. Maybe find out why horned children!”

He nodded slowly. “Just like old times, eh?” He smiled.

“Ah,” she smiled back. “But you not pull my arm so much this time.”

He chuckled. “You’re not gonna let me hear the end of that, are you?”

Yorda heaved a sigh of relief. She was home. Ico was safe, at least for now. The sun had set, and she could afford herself a night where none of the Matador’s nonsense mattered. She planted a peck on his cheek, flashing a flirtatious smile. “May I touch _other_ horn?” Her eyes darted downwards as she spoke, leaving no room for doubt.

Ico blushed again, leaning into her ear. “It’s all yours,” he whispered.

It rained for the rest of that night.

The persistent hiss of water lashing the ground outside their window drilled itself into her awareness. When she woke the following morning, it felt almost jarring to hear nothing outside. Only the echoed creaking of faraway windmills broke the silence. _I wish we could just stay here forever,_ she thought. _No bad men to fear, no cities to work in. Just him, and me, and these peaceful mornings._

For the following hour, Ico and Yorda went through the motions of their routine; eating bread from their baker friend in Arskel, bathing in the lake, and dressing for the day. Ico dressed himself first, stepping out of their house just as Yorda zipped into their room. He wore a plain tunic over a dark blue shirt, tucked into sand-brown trousers and knee-high sandals. It was still casual, if a bit more protective than what he wore to market. He rubbed his chin, and realised he’d forgot to shave.

He took a deep breath, thinking on what they’d promised to do. “Hey, Yorda!” he called into the house. “How exactly are we gonna do this? We can’t just go to Arskel and speak to this guy!”

“I know!” Yorda replied. “But I have idea, don’t worry!”

Ico sighed. Maybe it was just her limited grasp of common, but Yorda could be annoyingly vague sometimes. Even when they sold their goods, she preferred to haggle instead of settling on a fixed price. It worked, and she learned to recognise anyone trying to swindle her, but it still left their business vulnerable. Did she have any idea what they were going to do?

“Okay,” she said, finally emerging from their room, “you know old map that Tonto give us last week?” She stepped out into the sunlight, wearing a light vest over khaki shorts and a small bonnet. Her feet were bare, although Ico had stopped questioning this ages ago. “The one with your village?”

“Yep,” he said tersely. “He couldn’t have known I came from there.”

“It’s old map,” she replied, pulling the old parchment out of her pocket. “From the Castle era.” She pulled it out, slightly ripping it from the side. Her grip relaxed, and she held it to the light. The two stared at the expanse of inked land filling it. Arskel lay in the south, surrounded by spiked mountains and swirling clouds. “And Castle on here.” She traced her finger from the city, past their farm, and to a cliff overlooking the architectural monstrosity that was the Castle. Even on paper, the scribe made it out to be an architectural mess.

“You’re thinking we should go there?” Ico asked. “To a castle that’s at the bottom of the sea?”

“No, no,” she said with a wag of her finger. “But you know big gate at end of bridge?”

“Yes?” he said slowly.

She closed the map and clenched it in her hand. “It should still be there. I don’t know if still magic in me, or if I lose it opening Castle gate. I want to go there, and find out.” She shrugged. “I have hunch.”

“How’s this going to help us figure out what that monster was?”

“It takes our minds off it.” She sniggered. “But seriously, there was always chain between horned boys and Castle. Gate’s last link in chain.” She looked him in the eye, and he could tell she had no reservations. “We must start somewhere.”

He nodded, the breadth of their journey dawning on them. “I’m gonna go pack our things,” he said. “You ask Tonto to look after our farm while we’re gone.”

Yorda groaned. “Fine, but I run there quick and back,” she said. “No need for stupid sandals if I quick.” And with that, she took off, darting down the trail. Ico sighed. He would have gone himself, but with the news of the Matador, even his turban didn’t comfort him anymore.

He didn’t like to admit it, but sending Yorda off like that had given him time to ruminate as he packed their bags for the trek. Did that mean he had grown wary of her, or tired of her endless energy? He’d been perfectly fine with her for the last ten years, and nothing had really changed in their dynamic, as far as he knew.

He grabbed her dress from the wardrobe, which already lay neatly folded, complete with the tattered shawl around the neckline. She’d worn that dress since the day he met her in the castle, and every year since, she had extended it inch by inch, building her own loom (with his help) just for it. “Do I really want to take this?” he thought out loud, unfolding it and imagining the younger Yorda wearing it, her skin resplendent in the spring sun, staring at the world around her with empty eyes.

(As the years passed, he couldn’t be sure if his memories of her in the Castle were tinted with love and nostalgia, or if her skin was literally shining as bright as he remembered.)

“She’d kill me if I didn’t,” he decided, folding it again and tucking it in the bag. Even if this Matador business wasn’t happening, she probably would have gone on this pilgrimage anyway. It was bizarre to imagine they’d be facing that part of their lives again, after he’d done all he could to move away from it. From the moment they washed up on that beach, their lives had taken them from one land to another. They’d been surrogate children to the mayoress of Sullovar, and apprentice miners in the Krollik archipelago.

And honestly, he never imagined they would stay in Arskel for very long. But to go _back?_ He only got a brief glimpse at the gate Yorda was talking about. The ferrymen were eager to travel down to the boat, into the underbelly of the Castle. Nevertheless, he knew where it was. An hour’s ride from his village, Doen.

The memories poured back into his head all at once. He could hear the laughter of the village boys, taunting him with red capes and throwing him into the bullpen when he couldn’t get away from them. Those stupid village elders, who refused to help him and risk ‘making things worse.’ His parents, who only stood by and wept while he was calling for their names. His fist slammed the wall. “What are we doing?” he said aloud. “If she says we’re going back to that hellscape, I’ll lose my mind.”

He felt something wet drip on his hand. He was crying. No, sobbing. His cheeks had gone beet red, and his head swam in pent-up anger and fear. For the first time in ten years, Ico could feel the scared, lonely boy he had been, and tried not to be ever since. That boy was still there, waiting until the day he would stop running from himself.

He tapped the nubs of his horns. “Why couldn’t you break back then?” he stammered. “Maybe everything would’ve been okay if they were just like this.” He sighed, waiting for the swell of emotions to subside just enough to think of other things. “Just remember,” he said, the words fighting against how he really felt. “If you didn’t have those horns, you wouldn’t have met her. You wouldn’t have travelled the places you’ve been. You’ve been places even the ferrymen had never heard of.”

He chuckled. It did nothing to reconcile the frustration, but it was a nice break. He closed the bag and waited outside for the next hour. The sound of wind against the grass and distant bird cry helped to smooth his mind.

“Here, watch me do this.”

His ears picked up the sonorous syllables of Yorda’s speech. His head, still sound asleep, decided not to process them. Her words were parsed into his dreams: they had just left the beach, carrying their watermelon skins. He watched her say that, but the next thing he knew, she was out of sight. Was she behind-

“ _ICO!_ ”

Ico swiftly leapt to his feet, his brain suddenly firing full throttle as he swiped the rake lying nearby and ran from the house. Where was she?! In his mind, he conjured images of her being taken by those shadow creatures, dragged into their sinister pits. He readied the rake in both hands, poised to strike whatever had taken her from him.

He reached the path, and looked around for her. She was nowhere to be found. Then, he heard her laughing. The reality of the situation began to sink in, and he dropped the rake in disbelief. He turned around, and saw Yorda sprawled over a tree stump in hysterics, joined by Toto, who doubled over on the grass as he tried to catch his breath. He sighed in mild annoyance. “How do I keep falling for that?”

“Ha, wow,” Toto managed to say, picking up his straw hat and placing it on his curly hair. “He’s that defensive of you?” His words stung Ico in ways he didn’t expect. Was he defensive of her? The way he said it, it almost sounded like he was being overprotective.

“I not see that,” said Yorda, finally finding her words. “He come to save me, because he know better than anyone, what I am in danger of.” She looked at him with a smile. “When we met, he save my life more than ever. I only save him once.”

The pain faded from his heart. Ico allowed himself a smile in return. “I never kept track of how many times they nearly got you,” he said. “You’ll probably never even the score.” The blush in his cheeks vanished. He walked to the stump and planted a kiss on Yorda’s forehead. She snuck a peck on his cheek before he could pull away.

“You haven’t been in any danger on this farm, have you?” Toto asked, looking at the couple’s fields with admiration. “Because lemme tell you, I’m not a fighter. When wolves come to my farm, I’m pretty screwed unless it’s raining.”

“Nah, don’t worry,” Ico said, walking back to their house. “We’ve been pretty safe here.” He took the rake with him. “Okay, except that one time I dreamt Yorda was her mother, and I pushed her off the bed.” He set the rake back inside the house and picked up their bag. His arms dug beneath the fabric and hoisted it just at waist level, making a deliberate show of how heavy it supposedly was.

“You want me carry?” Yorda offered, reaching out to it.

“Uh, could you get the food sack?” he asked. “Couldn’t find room for that.”

She nodded dutifully, and ran to fill it with what she could find. “I’ve got some things in here for first camp!” he added, “so just focus on rations and essentials!”

Toto shared a look with Ico, one that suggested great concern. “You’re lucky you haven’t been to Arskel lately,” he said. “Did she tell you about the Matador?”

He nodded. “I can believe that horned children still exist,” he replied. “I can’t believe they’d still be harbingers for plague and famine.”

“He’s full of crap, he has to be.” Toto looked at his friend’s horn nubs, and Ico realised nobody except Yorda had seen them before. He looked almost awestruck, as though he was about to launch in a flurry of questions. “Still, there’s something about that bull-man he showed off,” he added. “If that’s a trick, it’s a damn spectacular one for a fraud like him.”

“Maybe if this goes well,” Ico mused, grabbing the cloth of his turban, “I’ll learn some great truth about horned children as a whole.” He bound it to his head, feeling his sweaty hair cling to the fabric once again. He took good care of the turban, but still felt a small bit of fatigue when he had to wear it. _I guess Yorda can relate to that,_ he thought.

On cue, Yorda scampered back into the main room of the house, wearing the sack around her shoulders. “Ready,” she said.

Toto looked at Yorda, then flashed a look towards Ico. “Are you sure she’ll be okay like that?”

“We face much worse while I stuck in old nightgown,” Yorda joked with traces of anger. “At least now, I wear hat.”

As soon as the couple were out of sight, Toto set to work examining the fields. He checked the crops, what needed reaping, planting, watering, and general maintenance. To his delight, all the crops had been prepared for him. The wheat lay in a bucket by their ramshackle barn. Their lone cow sat content with it, with only a large fence stopping it from eating the crops. The watermelons all grew in neat rows, only a few weeks away from use. Was he going to be there for that?

“Afternoon, friend!”

Toto looked up from his seat in surprise. Who said that? His eyes darted around, and noticed a man in black standing by the road, waving cheerfully. Even without his hat and red cape, the Matador’s choice in dress was disconcerting in itself. “What do you want?” Toto asked, getting to his feet.

“I’m just making the rounds,” replied the Matador, leaning on the fence casually. “Have you been to my sessions in town? I heard there’d been some confusion among certain people in Arskel, so I thought,” he shrugged, “I’d put their anxieties to rest, you know?”

“You’re not fooling anyone,” said Toto, visibly grabbing the rake from the hut. He made a show of it, plucking it from the floor with some theatricality. The shaft rested in both hands, one balled in a fist, smacking it against the open palm. “I bet all those plagues you were talking about didn’t even happen.”

The Matador blinked in surprise. “That’s a bit insensitive, don’t you think?” He leaned back, looking Toto in the eye. “I’ve seen it myself. If you’d like, I could show evidence of recent calamities afflicting the local area.” He smiled casually. “I’m afraid all those villages have had horned children in the past ten years. The evidence writes itself.”

“That doesn’t explain the bull man you were showing off the other day.” He stood by the hut’s threshold, glaring at the Matador. How dare he try and act innocent. He couldn’t seriously believe he was the hero, could he?

“But it does!” he insisted. “Listen, no other horned child has been allowed to grow up to adulthood. When the Castle was around, it took them all before that could happen. Now what, eh?” The relaxed mask was slipping, though he clearly believed himself morally superior. His whole persona set Toto on edge. How badly he wanted to run in and strike him down on the spot. _But ah,_ he thought, _he’s got the whole town under his thumb._

“How do you even know he’s a horned child?” Toto asked. “For all we know, horned children could grow up to be healthy, happy members of our people. All these tragedies could be mere coincidence.” His eyes narrowed. “Assuming they ever happened at all.”

“My gods, man,” said the Matador, arms flailing in exasperation. “Are you telling me you know a horned child who grew up and _didn’t_ become a monster?”

“What’s it to you if I have?”

The Matador simply stood there on the path. Not shuffling his feet or moving his arms. He blinked twice, and little more. “Be it so,” he said, turning to the city. “I shall warn you, dear farmer. If you are indeed lying, nobody in the city will ever let you in.” He turned to look at him one last time. “Nobody likes false hope.”

He tucked his hands in his pockets and walked down the path, and was soon out of sight. Toto watched him go, the rake still firm in his grasp. After that talk, he couldn’t feel comfortable letting go of it. His attention shifted to the distant trees. For all he knew, he had agents listening in on every word. He wanted to run and warn Ico and Yorda.

But to do so would be to abandon their home, and leave it to be ransacked. Toto sighed, feeling the sweat build between his fingers. This was going to be a long week.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

The city of Sullovar managed to surprise Yorda every day she spent there.

Presently, she followed the Mayoress through the halls of her mansion, hands clutched in front of her as she trailed sheepishly behind. _“Where are we going?”_ she asked, hoping she might understand her.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” The mayoress didn’t turn to look at her, yet her voice carried tones of genuine sympathy. Even from this angle, she looked resplendent; glitter glimmered in her braided hair, the fabric of her waistcoat had been threaded with sequins and jewellery, and elaborate floral patterns splayed through ripples and creases of her dress.

“N… No,” Yorda stuttered a response. The common tongue was still beyond her. She could manage one word at a time, and only if she could rely on context to do the rest of the work. This one seemed to do the trick. The mayoress carried on walking, descending a stairway spiralling into darkness.

“You can tell Ico about this place tomorrow morning,” she whispered cheekily. Yorda wished he’d been awake to join them. He’d done most of the work since their arrival, negotiating how the two could be of service to the country. She wasn’t too certain on what the exact details were. She wasn’t even sure how they landed accomodation with the leader of such a sprawling, populous city. What did she see in them? “Mind your step, things are about to get jagged.”

They both left the stairway, and Yorda felt the smooth, polished floor give way to hard, uneven stone. They had offered her many pairs of shoes the other day. None of them felt right. The mayoress was graceful enough to allow her to walk barefoot in the mansion grounds, (which the staff hadn’t wrapped their heads around yet) although she hadn’t found the nerve to join her ally outside yet.

As they walked, Yorda noticed crystals poking and jutting out of the stone walls, illuminating the two in bright blue rays. The sight enchanted her a little. Her mother’s magic had nothing on such natural wonders. “Come, we’re nearly there,” added the mayoress, climbing a short slope past similar crystals. Yorda followed dutifully, noticing a faint glow on the horizon. Curiosity piqued, she climbed quicker, leaning forward and pushing herself on her hands to reach the top quicker.

There, she stood before an endless sea of glowing crystals.

The sight took her breath away. All she could manage was an automatic “Whoa.” At least some of her words carried over into common tongue. _“I could never imagine places like this exist…”_

“This is my secret place,” said the mayoress. “I like to share my secrets with people here.” She nudged Yorda’s shoulder, who turned to her as she lifted the hem of her dress. She was also barefoot.

The young girl gasped in surprise. _“I thought I was the only one who did…”_

The mayoress gave her a warm smile. _“There’s a lot about yourself you barely even know,”_ she replied, the language coming naturally to her.

Yorda smiled fondly to herself, spirited along by her memories. “I have missed this,” she said, traipsing elegantly over the harsh stones in the path. “You know, maybe Castle escape not so bad.”

Ico looked at her in bafflement. “What are you talking about?” he asked with a chuckle. “You got the short end of the stick the whole time. Don’t tell me you’re getting nostalgic over spending a whole night as a statue.”

She giggled, kicking through a puddle in her way. “No, you right,” she said. “But now, when I dream, I remember only how big it is.” She stopped and faced him, her hands expressing with her words. “I think to myself, ‘If only Castle here now, we could play there all day, and never get bored.’”

Ico nodded to himself. He could understand why Yorda was so childlike and energetic at such a late stage. She didn’t have the words to express what life was like before he came along, but it couldn’t have been any better than being coupled up in an iron cage, suspended over a 60-foot drop. She'd never had the chance to live like a child, and she’d spent the last decade making up for lost time. “At least until the shadow creatures come back.”

“Yes, but I fight them this time!” She pretended to hold a sword in her hands, slashing the air while making the appropriate sounds with her mouth. “Or, you train me,” she added quietly. “I don’t know.”

Ico looked into her eyes. The mischievous glint he saw made him chuckle, pausing while he caught his breath. “Oh, we’re lucky we don’t have to deal with those spectres now,” he said to himself. He ran ahead, leading her into a dense woodland. “Could I have the map?”

“You promise not to break it?” Yorda asked, looking at the stream ahead of them. “I may run about more now, but you always risky one. I easily see you get it wet, or ripped, or worse.”

“Hey, I’ll be careful,” he replied, taking her by the hand. Where before, he only did this to drag her along during moments of stress or panic, now he only held her hand when he wanted to take it slow, and walk side by side. By now, she was bold enough to run as fast as him. Still, that instinct did emerge from time to time, especially if they were lost.

He looked at her as they walked, and forgot all about the stream until his foot planted in it. The cold rush of water against his toes shook him, and he jumped back with a yelp. Yorda laughed to herself. “Okay, stay still,” she said. “I will put map in bag.” She whipped it out of her pocket, checking it as a precaution before bequeathing it to her husband. “Ah, we get there tomorrow morning,” she added.

“What do you think we’ll find there?” Ico asked, standing still while she opened the bag. “Because as far as leads go, I can’t see it being that helpful. But…” He shrugged. “Who knows? We might bump into another procession for an unlucky horned child. That’ll be a start.”

“If no, we send letter to Sullovar,” Yorda proposed, rolling up the map and tucking it neatly in the bag. “Do you think she’s still there?”

“Who, the mayoress?” Ico heard the bag buckle shut. “Okay, ready to go?”

“Yes, her.” She walked ahead, walking recklessly into the stream. The rush of cold water made her scream, but she forced herself to stand in it, braving a grin. “I-it’s fine,” she stammered. “If you want, I make s-stepping stones for y-y-you.”

Ico stepped into the stream with her, immediately regretting his choice. “A w-woman as scholarly as her?” His teeth chattered as he spoke, but he refused to be defeated. “Oh, d-d-definitely.” He waded ahead, stretching out his arms to keep balance. “G-gods, she was so much like you!”

“M-maybe I’m next mayoress!” Yorda declared, wading a few inches behind, trying and failing to overtake him. “Hey, wait!” She stretched out her arm, which he immediately took.

“”I-I can s-s-see that happening!” Ico felt her wrist in his fingers, holding gently as they inched their way to the brook. “Nearly there now…”

The fire continued to crackle, belching a trail of smoke that climbed up to the night sky. Ico watched it transfixed, sitting on a log just close enough to feel its warmth. Yorda had already gone to sleep. He turned to look at her, lying in the grass with a woolen blanket over her. She looked so peaceful.

But still, he could not shake the feeling out of his head. With the Matador around, he didn’t feel welcome going anywhere near Arskel. If he ‘defeated’ him and proved the innocence of horned boys, would they let him back in? Would he still need to wear the turban? “I suppose not everyone knows about these,” he reminded himself, rapping his knuckles on the stubs.

Something rustled in the bushes. Ico looked towards it, trying to locate it exactly. Slowly, he picked up a leftover stick and hovered it above the fire. The end lit up, and he carried it with him as he approached the bushes. He swapped hands just as he approached Yorda, worried he might drop cinders on her face, light up her blanket or something silly like that. Once out of range, he put it back in his good hand, held it above the bushes.

There was nobody there. Not a rabbit, nor fox.

Dissatisfied, he returned to the fire, stepping quietly through the grass. There it was again! That rustle from behind him! He knew it. He threw the stick into the fire and turned back to the bushes. He inched closer, closer, watching his shadow stretch up the nearest tree. Did the figure see that? Had he just been rumbled?

Ico froze, fearful that any noise might give him away. His eyes turned to the bush, waiting for another telltale rustle. There it was! On impulse, Ico leapt towards it with spread arms, ready to pin whoever was hid behind it. His head made contact with the thing first, knocking it to the floor while his body slammed on top of it. The blow dazed both of them, and it took him a few seconds to figure out what it was.

It was a man, dressed in leather, with long, brown hair veiling his ears. He, too, was dazed.

“What are you doing here?” Ico hissed.

“I-what are you talking about?” protested the man, wrestling for freedom. “I was just out hunting!”

“Oh, at this time of night?” Ico shoved his arms into the ground, holding him down with all his energy. “You’d better not be with the Matador, or I swear, I’ll-”

“Who in the gods’ name is the Matador?”

Ico paused, still keeping the man pinned down, but less aggressively than before. “You genuinely don’t know?”

“Does he have something to do with those horn stumps?” said the man with a sneer.

He sighed, rolled off and let the man go. “What were you hunting for?”

“Well, foraging, more than anything,” he replied, rubbing his arms with a scowl. “I don’t suppose we could borrow your campfire to compensate for you attacking me?”

“Look, I’m sorry,” said Ico. “We’re kinda on the run, and I wasn’t sure if you knew about me.”

Something rustled behind him. Ico turned, just in time for Yorda to emerge from the bushes. “Is there problem?” she asked.

“No, I just got a bit jumpy,” said Ico, flashing the man a smile. “What’s your name, sorry?”

“Eles,” said the man. “I’m with a trade caravan, we’re just on the edge of the forest.” He picked up some twigs by his feet. “Okay, I’ll admit I was curious about you two, so… I owe you an apology, I guess.”

Ico shrugged. “I’m Ico, and this here’s Yorda.”

She gave Eles a smile. “He not hurt everyone, don’t worry.”

Eles looked at her in confusion, eyeing her from head to toe. “Where are you from?” he asked. “We’ve been all over the land, and I’ve never heard an accent like that.”

“Hmm, far away land,” Yorda replied. “It fell in the sea, and now I live with him.” She wrapped her arm around Ico, nuzzled against his shoulder.

“I came from a village called Doen,” added Ico. “Ever heard of it?”

“Uh, yeah,” Eles replied. “Real backwaters-y place, hasn’t seen a child born there in over ten years. It’s almost a ghost town by now.”

Ico’s arms fell limp by his side. “W-what?” he stammered weakly.

Eles shrugged. “They used to string up children born with horns for some kinda sacrifice. One day, they had this real bad storm, and all the mothers there suddenly lost the use of their wombs.” He noticed how pale Ico’s face had suddenly become. “Are you okay, buddy? What, you used to…”

Realisation glimmered in his eyes.

“Okay, I was exaggerating a bit,” he added. “There are a few children there, but they’re about, like, no older than ten. I guess most of them moved to other villages, or cities or whatever.” He shrugged. “Villages die, sometimes.”

“O-okay, yeah…” Ico took a sigh,turned away to process what he’d heard. _Did the Queen do that?_ he wondered. _Doesn’t make sense for my village to be cursed like that. Unless it was some kind of punishment._

“Where you go?” asked Yorda.

“We were gonna go to Arskel,” said Eles. “Why, you heading there too?”

She shook her head. “We go _away_ from Arskel. Bad trouble there, Ico not safe.”

“I got it. You need somewhere to lay low until it blows over.”

Yorda looked at Ico, who had returned to their camp and huddled by the fire. _It won’t be that simple,_ she thought to herself. _He won’t be able to relax until we solve this mystery once and for all._ She turned to Eles. “We looking for place where horned men live.”

“Horned men?”

Yorda nodded.

“Eh, can’t say I know anything about that,” said Eles. “Maybe the scholars at Sullovar know something about that?”

Her eyes lit up. “ _Yes, Sullovar! I can’t tell you how much I’ve-_ ” She stopped, cleared her throat, and tried again. “You no recognise language?”

“Nope.”

She blushed. “I think it too far to travel there,” she said.

“That’s not an issue,” said Eles. “We’ll be travelling there pretty soon, if you wanna join us.”

“I speak to Ico about it,” she said. “You be here tomorrow?”

“Yeah, we should be.”

“Okay,” said Yorda. “We see you in morning.” She turned and waved Eles goodbye. He watched her disappear into the bushes. _I thought my group were oddballs,_ he thought.

Day broke with the rising crescendo of the morning chorus. Ico awoke to the smell of a smouldering campfire, stirring memories from last night. “Ugh, Yorda?” he mumbled, getting to his feet.

Yorda was knelt by the bag, fastening the straps. She flashed him a smile. “Sleep well?”

“Um, no,” he replied, still rubbing his eyes. “I had this bad dream about going back to my village, and finding it completely empty. Well, I think the shadow monsters were there, and I vaguely remember seeing the Queen’s face, but other than that…” He shook his head. “Another reason not to go there.”

“I think it do you good to return,” said Yorda, tipping the bonnet over her eyes. “Maybe mother and father still there.”

“We’ll see.” He swiped the turban cloth from the bag and wrapped it around his head. “Is Eles there?”

“I not see him,” said Yorda. “But then again, you sleep, and I rather go with you to see him.”

“Can’t argue there,” said Ico, reaching out to the bag. Yorda shrugged and slung it over her shoulders, seemingly in defiance. (Defiance to what, he wasn’t sure.) “He came from over there, didn’t he?” He pointed towards a hedgerow bridging two trees. Yorda gave a small, uncertain nod. _Only one way to be sure,_ he decided, making for it.

They cut through the bushes, and found a large clearing, empty save for an old wagon wheel lying by a used fire. The smoke trail still snaked into the sky. If this was Eles’ caravan, they had only just left. “Damn, I must’ve overslept,” he muttered.

Yorda surveyed the scene before her. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a slip of paper wedged in a nearby tree, ran to pick it up. “Hey, I think this for us,” she said, handing it to him.

Ico looked at it with surprise. He wasn’t expecting the man’s caravan to carry any kind of paper. Perhaps they had a scholar among them? Without hesitation, he opened up the slip and gave it a read.

_“Ico,_

_Gone to Arskel for business_

_Will leave for Sullovar from Tidemoon Harbour_

_Either pay 500 coins, or offer goods for trade_

_Eles”_

She groaned. “We have to go _back_ to Arskel to get either goods or money.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Ico, pocketing the slip. “For now, I say we keep moving.” He turned to her. “How far ‘til we reach the gate?”

She still carried the watermelon skin in her hands, picking pieces out to nibble from time to time. Ico gave his one last look, then threw it carelessly in the grass. Yorda stopped to stare at it in curiosity. These fruits were like none in the castle. Heck, the concept of food that grew was still alien to her. What were these doing behind a rock, of all things?

“Hey,” said Ico. Yorda gasped and ran to keep up with him. “Gotta keep moving,” he added sternly.

Yorda nodded to herself, taking note of the world around her. They had long left the beach behind, and had been walking through this forest for a good few hours. The sun was at its apex, warming the air around them without the sea breeze to keep them cool. The grass crunched under Yorda’s bare feet. It felt softer than the grass from the castle; more alive.

“ _Where are we going?_ ” she attempted to say. She knew by now that he didn’t hear that. Strangely, ever since they had washed ashore, she realised she could understand what Ico said. Back in the castle, all she heard was nonsense coming from his mouth. Back then, he somehow found a way to guide her; to tell her where to go and what to do, without the luxury of her language.

“Don’t worry,” said Ico with a smile. “We should find a village or something soon.”

Yorda gasped, dropping the watermelon skin. “ _Did you just understand me?_ ”

“Uh-huh,” said Ico thoughtlessly. “Sure.”

Back in the castle, she knew better than to try speaking to him. What was the point if neither of them understood the other? When she did speak, it was more for herself than him. But now, _now_ she understood him. She ran ahead of him, turned and faced him. _Listen to me,_ ” she insisted, “ _my words, my thoughts. Do you understand what I’m saying?_ ”

Ico stopped to stare at her. “Um… Sorry, still can’t figure it out,” he mumbled. “Maybe somebody in the village knows the language you’re talking. Who knows, maybe I can learn it.”

The smile on his face was sincere. It did nothing to ease the pain in her heart. She slowed behind him, dragging her toes through the mud. “ _I just want to talk to you…_ ” she whispered, feeling a tear crawl down her cheek. When neither of them understood the other, at least they had basic communication to keep them going. Things were so much simpler then. Now they were free, it felt like a door had opened for Yorda. A door into life beyond the castle.

It felt like her mother still held her by the neck, stopping her from going through it.

“Hey, do you hear that?” Ico said, stopping. He turned his head, and Yorda found herself doing the same, to distract herself. She heard distant shouting, sounds of men singing and children laughing. She turned to him, and saw hope in his eyes. “I knew it!” Immediately he was off, racing towards the sound.

Yorda ran after him, struggling to keep up with him. She could hardly imagine how he felt with both of his horns gone, but he still had the same energy she expected from him. She tried to run after him, flailing her arms, panting at every step, but he grew further and further out of reach. _Come on, Yorda,_ she told herself. _You are not the fragile princess locked up in a tower, anymore. You are free. Free from mother’s magic. Push yourself!_

She leaned into her run, pushing her legs an inch further. Her flailing arms grew controlled and swung by her side. She found a rhythm to her breathing, ran in step with it. Suddenly she realised he was growing closer again. She was keeping pace with him! Her legs and lungs ached, but they had never experienced adrenaline like this before. This was a good pain. Pain of growth. For the first time, Yorda was beginning to understand what she could truly do.

Then Ico stopped, and Yorda smacked clean into him, knocking him to the floor with a yelp. “Yumin,” she squeaked, rolling off him.

“Hey, watch it,” he said, unable to hide the surprise in his voice. Now she was back on her feet, she could see what had grabbed his attention.

They had reached a path cutting through the forest, curving down the hill towards a sprawling port town, with dozens of ships he’d never seen before moored at the docks. The sounds of people echoed from the streets and into his ears. “I knew it,” he said again. Before Yorda could reply, he threw himself around her, burying his head in her shoulder. Startled, she smiled, rested her head atop his.

He jumped back. “Let’s go,” he said, running down the hill. Yorda stood there in shock. “Ico…” she whispered, before running after him, following the same rhythm.

“Hey, I just thought,” said Ico, taking a bite from his apple. “When was the last time that gate was actually used?”

“When we use it?” Yorda suggested, waiting for him to catch up.

Ico made a short sprint to catch her, slowing to take another bite. He had been complaining about being hungry the past hour, yet didn’t want to use any of their rations. As luck had it, they were passing an orchard, and had money on hand for an apple. “Nah, before that,” he continued. “I mean, actually got to it. Crossed the bridge and actually opened it.”

“I not remember,” said Yorda. Her memories before being in that cage had long since faded. Sometimes she even wondered if she’d been born in that cage, and never knew life within the Castle. Her mother insisted she was once a kind and benevolent queen, but never gave her the full story. What kind of queen would do that to her daughter?

“You know, I kind of glad I never open gate myself.”

Ico took his last bite and tossed the apple into the grass. The path ahead began to slope. The sound of seagulls and wind were picking up. “Why’s that?”

“You know how much it take to open big gate?” said Yorda. She huffed, feeling a cold shiver run down her arms. “I still remember the pain now.”

“Yeah,” said Ico softly. “You went all pale. Your hair lost all its colour.”

“It take all my magic,” she continued, focusing her gaze on the cresting path ahead. “I wonder if I open gate at other end, how much that take? Would it kill me?” She stopped suddenly. “And now, I walk towards it, not knowing if I have magic left.” Saying it out loud put her whole dream into a context she’d never thought of until now. Was this even a good idea?

Ico put his hand on her shoulder, gave her a smile. “If it does anything to you, I’ll pull you out,” he said. “I did a good job saving you from the Castle last time, didn’t I?”

Yorda chuckled and nodded. “We come too far now,” she said. “I not know what happen when we turn back.”

“Focus on busting the Matador,” replied Ico. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

Yorda chortled, stopping to double over and guffaw loudly, her bonnet falling to the floor. “Cross bridge, ha!”

Ico gasped. “That wasn’t- Y-you know what I mean,” he stammered, feeling his cheeks burn.

The laughter faded as Yorda picked up the bonnet. The two fell silent, save for the rising wind ahead. Curious, Yorda ran to the path’s peak to get a good vantage point.

There it was.

She stood before a cliff overlooking vast, endless ocean. To her side, a small path dipped out of sight; no doubt the path the ferrymen took on Ico’s arrival to the Castle. But ahead, there was the gate. Several giant, cubic statues, their backs turned to her. She counted them, noting the moss and decay that decorated them. Corners chipped off; colour faded. She counted sixteen in all. All lined up, ready to open apart on the right command.

She looked uncertainly at Ico. “This is it,” she whispered. “What if it hurt me?”

“Did the smaller gates hurt you?” said Ico, trying to remember how she looked when she opened them. He didn’t remember her being at all expressive back then. At least, not compared to now.

“No,” she said, taking a deep breath. “I stronger now. I… I am not young Princess Yorda, trapped in castle, waiting for you save me.” She cast her bonnet aside, taking steps towards the gate. “For last ten years, I walk my path. I make my decisions. Learn your language. Eat, drink, work, farm.” Her voice picked up as she spoke, her stories growing in length. “I meet Mayoress of Sullovar, mine in Krollik. I walk barefoot in stone and snow, even on Royal carpet.”

She now stood inches away from the gate, looked up to the sheer mass of it.

“ _My name is Yorda Chirico, and I am a free woman!_ ” she screamed in her language, slamming her palm against the rotting stone gate.

Nothing happened.

She stood there for a while, her palm glued to the stone, waiting for something to happen.

It stayed put.

As Ico watched, Yorda took a step back, her hand falling slack by her side. She began to sniffle, wiping the tears from her eyes. “Yorda…” he said gently.

She wrapped herself around him, sobbing and laughing in equal measure. “I am free!” she said. “I am free from mother.”

“Free?” Ico said, embracing her softly.

She sniffed, trying to find the words. “There, there’s no magic. No magic in me,” she forced herself to say. “Gate is dead. _Castle_ is dead. Mother… Mother is dead.” She stepped back, her face flushed with emotion. “But me, Ico? I’m alive. _I_ am alive. I with you, and…” She turned back to the gate. “I do anything, and not stop me.” She cupped her hands to her mouth. “ _Do you hear me, Mother?!_ ” she yelled. “ _This world is as safe as I make it to be!_ ”

She wanted to continue to scream and shout. Before she could, one of the statues toppled over, falling down the cliff, cascading into the sea below. It's companions began to crumble, pieces bouncing off the cliff face before splashing loudly. Yorda stepped back to Ico’s side, waiting until the last statue had fallen. Then, exchanging looks, they approached the cliff face.

Nothing remained of the gate. Even down below, the small makeshift dock the ferrymen used had been lost to the ages.

“It’s gone,” said Ico to himself. “It’s finally, actually gone.”

“Yep,” said Yorda, turning to him. “Now, we take care of horned boys. They not gone.”

“I hope,” muttered Ico to himself, letting Yorda take his hand, and walk him away from the cliff face. There was something comfortingly warm in her palm, almost like when he first held it. This time, it wasn’t some arcane magic. It was her. Everything she felt for him, encapsulated in a single connection between them.

And this time, she was leading him.

The bull-man wrapped his fingers around the bars and bellowed, and was met with a pelting of fruit, cauliflowers and somebody’s hat. A crowd had gathered around the large cage, with only the leather-clad Matador standing aside to monitor things. “Please be careful,” he said, his voice masked by the rabble. “These bars are thin iron, and could easily break if he’s provoked enough.”

Eles poked his head through the crowd to peek at the cage. The thing was cylindrical, lined with sharp spikes at either end. A small, broken chain trailed from the top. It may have been designed to fit small adults, but this bull-man was bigger than any human he’d ever seen. He certainly looked too big to lie comfortably in it, and couldn’t even stand to full height. “Is this a grown horned child?” he asked.

“Hey, move!” cried one woman, struggling to keep in front of the crowd. The Matador, standing on his podium, waved his arms and blew kisses. Clearly he hadn’t heard.

“Are you the Matador?!” Eles shouted.

He opened one eye to look at Eles. With what looked like an eye roll, he held out his hands, bringing the rabble to a low murmur. “Yes, what is it?” he said.

“I keep seeing all these bullheads everywhere in town,” said Eles, finding some room for himself in the crowd. “Does this have anything to do with the horned children?”

“It has everything to do with the horned children!” the Matador declared. The crowd burst into a cheer, before he ushered them calm with a single motion. “You don’t want our youth to grow into _these_ monstrosities, do you?”

“How do you intend to do that?” asked Eles. “It can’t be more barbaric than trapping them in some godsforsaken fortress in the middle of the ocean, can it?” Back in Doen, he hadn’t given it much thought. But meeting Ico, seeing the nubs on his head, gave him pause for thought. Did the Matador know about him?

“Well, what are you proposing?” hissed the Matador. “You can’t cure them just by cutting off their horns. Those little ivory appendages brand them from birth. They are a gift from thoughtless gods, who don’t know what they’re doing!”

The crowd cheered again. Eles looked at them with disgust and a fluttering of fear. _I was told that Arskel was a sensible capital of commerce,_ he thought. _Now it’s turning into some bovine death cult._ By this point, it was clear what the Matador was aiming for. He hated to ask, but needed to know what dangers Ico faced. “What will you do to them?”

The crowd fell silent. A twitch befell the Matador’s eye. For a moment, it looked like he hadn’t thought that part through. _So that means he hasn’t actually captured any children yet._ A reassuring smile swiftly replaced the twitch. “Not to worry,” he said to the crowd. “The child won’t feel a thing. They’ll be gone within a-”

He clapped his hands to close his declaration. The crowd, once again, burst into applause. The pelting resumed, the bull-man shrunk into a corner, covering his eyes and sobbing. The Matador turned to the crowd, but couldn’t find the man who’d spoken to him. Even the top of his head had vanished into the rabble.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

The sun’s morning rays crept through the leaves, accompanied by the singsong of birds. The sight reminded Yorda of an opera, with the spotlight following the singers everywhere they went. The birds flew overhead, their song dancing from one ear to the next. Was this really the path Ico had been taken on as a child? “Doen this way?” she asked again.

Ico gave a small nod. “Do we really have to do this?” he asked softly, looking at the map in his hands. “We’ve been away from home for five days now. Maybe we should go back, let Toto get on with his-”

She placed a finger to his lips, giving him a welcoming smile and a stern gaze at the same time. “I get my peace,” she said, “now you get yours.” In truth, she did agree with him on some level. It was her turn to carry the bag, and her legs hated the burden with every fibre. Even her feet were starting to feel the pain. For a brief, yet shocking second, she wondered if she should have brought sandals after all.

“Yeah, I guess,” said Ico. “Shouldn’t be far now.”

Yorda sighed with relief, forgetting herself for a small moment.  _ Perhaps I won’t need those sandals.  _ She shrugged the left strap back into place, letting Ico take the lead. Once again, he hesitated. With a cheeky tut, she marched on, just as he started moving with larger strides, quickly outpacing her. He moved without hesitation, with purpose. She wondered if he was feeling how she felt about the gate.  _ Though this is definitely more urgent than what I wanted. _

The path sloped downward. Ico took careful steps, reaching with his hand to help her down inch by inch. With the huge burden on her back, she accepted his help without a moment’s hesitation, finding footholds in the dirt, keeping her gaze on the path down. “Not pull, Ico,” she joked, trying to steady her nerves.

“I won’t,” he started to say. As he did, Yorda lost her footing, and the bag pulled her down the slope. Still holding tight, Ico found himself tumbling down with her, smashing into the ground below with a thud. Yorda, in turn, landed on the bag, flattening it. The seal broke, and the clothes within spilled into a nearby puddle of mud. She stared in horror, trying to salvage what she could. Unfortunately for her, only Ico’s spare turban survived untouched. “ _ Rat crap and cow droppings, _ ” she hissed.

Ico picked up the muddy clothes, looking disdainfully at them. As she watched, he looked away, and his expression lifted suddenly. “Not to worry,” he said. “It’s just there.” He bundled the clothes together and ran ahead. Yorda, rather stunned, sealed the bag and ran to catch up with her husband. At least now, the burden was much lighter.

A lone windmill blew at the edge of the village. A gentle breeze pushed the sails along, creaking loudly against the ramshackle tower propping it up. Yorda looked at it in confusion, trying to make sense of it. There was nothing clearly attached to the windmill. The wheat fields were on the opposite side of them, anyway. Still, that creaking filled the space of the village. No other voices joined it.

Ico stared at his old home. The huts were still there, still encircling the chieftain’s hut. But holes marked the roofs and walls of some, and others had collapsed outright. “Where… Where is everyone?” he said to himself. What could have happened to his hometown, to steal the life he had grown up with. “Hey!” he yelled, cupping his hands to his mouth. “Hey! Is anybody here?!”

Silence met them in reply. Yorda looked again at the wheat field. The stalks didn’t look particularly healthy. The grass underfoot was a pale yellow, almost like straw in how it felt. What little life was left in the soil clearly wouldn’t last the month.  _ If this village isn’t dead already,  _ she thought,  _ it soon will be.  _

Panic clutched at Ico’s heart, as he ran towards the huts. “Hey, anybody!” he called. “It’s me, Ico! I’m back! I’m home!” He ran around the chieftain’s hut, checking every home around it, both standing and derelict. “Esa? Locu? Yue?” He stopped suddenly at one hut, still standing seemingly unscarred. Yorda caught up with him, just seeing him stand utterly still before this one, lonely house.

“Mother?” he whispered.

As Yorda watched, something took shape in the hut’s threshold. A thin, hobbling woman, peering out of the shadows with narrow eyes. Twin braids hung from either side of her head, itself compressed like a blob of dough. She took one look at him, at the gentleman in the turban, then at the elven woman standing beside him.

“Do I know you from somewhere?” she whispered to herself with a haggard croak.

“Mother, it’s me,” he said gently, pointing to himself. “Ico.”

The old woman’s eyes grew wide in shock. “Ico?” she gasped, stepping back into the shadows. “N-no, that’s not true, it’s not! You- you went to the Castle, just like all the other horned boys.” There was a look in her face. Not quite fear, but close to it. “They said you would never come back. You were meant to…”

Ico smiled. “I escaped my cursed fate,” he said, gesturing to Yorda. “Me and her, we brought an end to the curse once and for all.” He gave her a look that read,  _ Or so I thought.  _ She replied with an uneasy laugh.

To reinforce his point, he unrobed the turban, dropped it by his feet. His mother saw the two broken nubs on his head, and dropped her walking stick in amazement. “It cannot be,” she whispered. “You truly have escaped your fate.” A great excitement overcame her. “My son is alive!”

Ico ran towards her, wrapping his arms around her in a long-awaited embrace. Yorda stood back and watched, happy for her husband.  _ At last, he can find the closure he’s always needed.  _ Her gaze turned to the other, ruined huts of the village, and she lost her smile.  _ Although his story is far from over. _

“Hey, Yorda!” Ico shouted. “Come join us! We need to tell mother what happened at the castle!”

“Oh,” she replied, giving his mother a friendly wave. “It long, crazy story.”

Their stories were exchanged over a beef broth.

Ico explained what happened at the castle, wording his explanations carefully to make everything sound believable to his mother. Yorda would sometimes interrupt with one of their adventures out in the open world. As she was talking about their involvement in the Miners’ Protest in Krollik, he was worried that her story, or how she was spinning it, would come across as too far-fetched. Instead, his mother chuckled, and accepted her words without question.  _ It helps we haven’t had to deal with magic since our escape,  _ he thought.

“So, what brings you back to Doen?” she asked. “After all your escapades, I’m surprised you’d want to come back here.”

“Yeah,” said Ico, reminded of his unease. Was it better to ask about what happened to the village, or just answer the question straight, and hope to get an explanation from that?

“He come for closure,” said Yorda, taking the choice from him. “We travel to make peace with our past. I do mine, now he come here for his.” She gave him a smile, which he didn’t feel ready to return.  _ Did I speak out of turn again?  _ she asked herself.

“Um, there’s something else,” said Ico. “Have you heard of the Matador?”

“Yes,” said his mother with a grave nod. “If you’ve lost your horns, maybe you’ll never have to deal with him. I pray you never do.”

“I doubt I’ll be that lucky,” he replied with a mirthless laugh. “The horns may be gone, but they’re still a part of me. I am, and always will be a horned child. And I think he’ll pick up on that.”

“So, what?” she asked. “Are you going to flee this country?”

He shook his head, just as Yorda opened her mouth to reply. She saw it, leaned back, and let him talk. “It’ll happen no matter where we go. No, mother. I want to understand it. See, he’s got this thing caged up. It’s like-”

“A bull with the body of a man?”

He gasped.

His mother gazed out the door, towards the ravaged village. “You weren’t the only horned child from Doen,” she said. “Remember Cantu?”

He nodded his head slowly.

“He had horns too, but they broke when he was six, just before they could take shape. So, he grew, and as he turned into an adult, he grew hairy, his voice turned deep, and he struggled to speak. By the time he was twenty…” She sighed. “The Matador actually came here, took him away from us.”

Ico fell in his seat, numb. “One of them lived here…”

“As you can imagine,” she continued, “after that, a lot of us decided to move out. Our people fled to live in Arskel, or Bolon, or wherever they could find refuge. Me and the chieftain stayed, but even then, he’s admitted he will probably leave when I’m gone.” She looked down at herself. “Doen dies with me…”

“All of this desolation…” Ico whispered, “because of the curse?” He looked at the lonely windmill out the window. It had ground to a halt. He struggled to imagine it turning ever again. “Will nobody ever live here after you’re gone?”

She shook her head. “The chieftain stays out of duty only. He has nothing else to do, than to make sure I’m still alive.” She sighed. “It’s not fair for you to carry this burden, my son. But this curse killed our village.” She looked him in the eye. He could still see the disbelief in her gaze, the doubt that her son was still alive, and talking to her. “We all thought it would kill you.”

“You know, I doubt curse do this,” muttered Yorda.

The two turned to her. “Pardon?” said Ico’s mother.

“Horned children carry curse, yes,” she explained, sitting up. “Mother, she… harvest them, take their magic, feed off them. Then she turn them to shadow, to serve her forever. No grown child come to castle ever. What she do with grown bull man?” She shrugged. “Who say curse from mother at all? Who say she not just take something that natural?”

“Are you saying this just happens?” asked Ico, a little dumbfounded. “That horned kids are just born without any rhyme or reason?”

“I think,” she replied, scratching her chin. “All this drought, plague, bad things that happen… Maybe she cause that. Maybe whole harvest just big, clever game she play with people, so people think horned child to blame?”

“That sounds very difficult for her to organise,” muttered Ico, considering the possibility himself. “We need to get to the bottom of this. But I don’t think there’s anyone left in the land who’d know anything about it.” He paused. “Well, one exception, but there’s no chance I’m asking  _ him _ .”

“You might be right,” said his mother. “I implore you, whatever you must do, leave the land until it is safe for horned children once again.” She shook her head. “You deserve a free life, Ico. The pair of you do.”

“Ico,” said Yorda suddenly, with a snap of her fingers, “I may know someone.”

“Who?”

She hesitated for a moment. Ever since meeting the Mayoress of Sullovar, she hadn’t told him about their shared conversation. What would he say now if she told him? She closed her eyes, and braced for the result. “Leader of Sullovar,” she said. “She… Speaks my tongue.”

“How can that be possible?” asked Ico’s mother. “Surely you and your queen were the only one literate in that… dialect.”

“ _ There is a lot about my family I do not know, _ ” she whispered in her language, sitting back down. “ _ Perhaps my journey of self-discovery is not yet over after all. _ ” She looked at Ico, with a face of concern and hope. “ _ Perhaps our fates are bound closer than I thought. _ ”

She could see in his eyes that he still couldn’t understand her language. Beyond that, however, she could see that he knew what she was saying. “So be it,” he decided. “Starting tomorrow, we embark for Sullovar.”

“Where will you stay?” asked his mother. “If you’d like to stay here one last time, I’d be happy to host the pair of you.”

“Thanks, mother,” said Ico, pulling his bag along the floor. “I hate to ask this, but could you help us with our washing while we’re here? We slipped on the way.”

The bag sagged, spilling muddy clothes over the cold, stone floor. His mother stared at them in shock. Her gaze returned to Yorda, who smiled innocently. “My clothes not dirty as his,” she said.

An overnight stay evolved into two, as Ico spent more hours talking with his mother than Yorda had hoped. Their clothes had been washed, their food replenished from the village’s derelict barn; by all means, they were ready to go. Tidemoon Harbour was only a stone’s throw away from Doen, easy to reach on foot.

And yet, this was the happiest she had ever seen him. His family was alive, and so was she. As far as she understood it, his life had come full circle. Watching him chat with his mother, she felt almost forgotten about, with neither paying her much attention. She had to insist they leave to be acknowledged, and even then, they would quickly forget, and return to their recollections.

Yorda sat on the doorstep, gazing out to the decaying village around her, stamping her feet against the dry, dusty ground.  _ This may be the happiest he’s ever going to be,  _ she thought,  _ but we can’t live here. While he’s here, he’s just the same little boy he was before the sacrifice, and not the man I love. There is nothing for me here. _

Was there any chance he’d want to stay? The idea wedged itself in her head, and refused to be ignored. That would put a lot of pressure on her. Pressure that didn’t feel fair. She stood up, turning back into the hut to bring this up.

There he was, sitting by the table, eating another bowl of broth.

Yorda sat opposite him, fixing a glare on him. “We need to go,” she insisted.

“I know,” he said lazily, “but after this. Mother’s preparing me some bread for-”

“We have all we need!” hissed Yorda. “You cannot stay here.”

Ico dropped the spoon in the bowl. “Why can’t I?” There was a childish pettiness in that question.  _ So he does want to stay. _

“You in danger,” she said. “Matador find you, do thing to you I don’t want see! We go, before he find us!”

“Yorda, listen,” replied Ico, trying to sound reasonable. “This is my mother. I haven’t seen her in ten years. She’s my family. After all this time, you can’t seriously expect me to just walk away from her, do you?”

“If I let you stay here,” she said, throwing out her hand to the village beyond, “this what you become! Alone, lifeless, cut off from people! You have so much, Ico.” She returned her hand to the table. “Stay here, and all that will go.”

There was a sneer in his eyes. “Is that what you’re afraid of?”

“What?”

“There’s plenty of room in this village for you, Yorda,” said Ico, with the voice of a parent speaking to a small child. “We can just move here. Forget about the Matador. About Toto, about Eles. It’ll be just like how things used to be, before the sacrifice, before the Queen. Back when my life made sense.”

Yorda’s cheeks turned pink. “You right,” she whispered, struggling to contain herself. “This place just like it was. Before sacrifice. Before Queen.” She stood up suddenly. “And before me.”

She turned tail and walked out of the doorway, grabbing her bag on the way out. Ico watched with shock as Yorda disappeared from view. He leapt over the table and ran to catch up with her. The broth bowl was knocked over as he did, crashing on the floor.

His mother watched it all unfold from the kitchen, turning to the bread in the kiln. “It’s true, isn’t it?” she said to herself. “I’m holding him back from her.”

Evening rays peered out of the clouds, bathing the golden grass in autumnal hues. For a moment, it was easy to forget that Doen was a ghost town, when it could offer such potent beauty.

Yorda wasn’t in the mood for it. She marched past the grass, between two run-down huts, back into the surrounding forest. She held the new map in her hands, kindly donated by Ico’s mother. According to it, as long as she kept going downhill, she’d reach Tidemoon Harbour before nightfall.

“Yorda!”

She stopped on instinct, turning to see Ico running towards her, flailing his arms without any elegance or composure. He looked genuinely panicked; a sight she had grown too used to for her liking. “Yorda!” he repeated, coming to a stop, wheezing for breath.

Yorda folded her arms. “You forget for bread?”

“Yorda, listen,” huffed Ico, waving his hand to her. “I’m sorry about that, I really am.” He faced her. “But my mum’s precious to me. With dad gone, she’s the only family I have. You, you can’t seriously expect me to walk away from that.”

“Yes,” Yorda started to say, before rethinking what he’d just told her. She had heard the two talking about his father, but never paid attention to the details. From what she could recall, he’d just up and left one day, for the sake of some job or other.  _ I suppose I am being rather ignorant here,  _ she realised. She sighed. “I mean, no.”

Ico caught his breath, and stood straight. “You understand?”

“No,” she answered honestly, “but it not your fault. My mother, never like that. She not love me, or anything. Love for family, I never get.” She looked away.  _ The Mayoress of Sullovar loved me, a little. Was that what a mother’s love felt like? We never should have left.  _ Her gaze returned to Ico. “I’m…”

Something caught her eye in the distance.

A plume of smoke, billowing from Ico’s hut.

“Ico, look…”

He turned in confusion, and stared in visible horror as his childhood home bloomed into flame. The fire spread quickly to the surrounding huts, and caught fast on the derelict windmill at the far end. The fields were fast ablaze. The two could feel the heat shimmer from where they stood.

“No!” Ico cried, sprinting towards it. Yorda grabbed him by the wrist, pulling him back. “Let me go!” he protested. “Mom’s still in there!”

“She got out!” Yorda shouted back, thinking on the spot. “I see her, she get out alive! We can’t stay here!”

Still, Ico resisted. “I have to be sure!”

“ _ I’m _ sure!” She ran to face him, eye to eye. “Do you trust me?”

“Wh, Yorda-”

“I saw her,” she repeated. “Now let’s go!”

He stuttered for a response, before finally swallowing it. “Okay,” he said weakly. “Let’s go.”

Yorda led the sprint, dragging Ico behind her as the two ran for the woods. She hadn’t really seen his mother at all. But he was too attached to that place, and to her. This was the perfect opportunity for him to cut away and become a man once again. If she had lived, she didn’t want to know.  _ She will only drag him down, if he sees her alive again. _

The two ran into the dimming sky, listening to the crackling of fire fade behind them.

Two figures watched the two flee, hidden in the canopy. “This was a bit extreme, don’t you think?” asked the younger one. Their voices were drowned out by the raging flames, but they heard each other just fine.

“Maybe,” replied the older one. “But it was a dead town anyway. I just got too sentimental over it. Ironic that my son helped me realise that. It caught him in the same trap.”

“So, what do we do now?”

The older voice scoffed. “Well, you’re hardly a chieftain anymore,” she said. “I don’t suppose you know the way to Arskel?”

Two hours later, and Doen was the talk of the town for the first time in years. Everybody could see the rising smoke. The two heard chatter about it on the way to the inn. Yorda powered through it, determined not to let Ico be caught up in any of it. But now, in their room, they were away from all that. Still, she could see the smoke from the window.

Ico lay on his bed, his face frozen in shock. “It’s gone,” he repeated again. “All of it, gone.”

Yorda sat next to him, putting a hand on his lap. “It was dead town,” she whispered. “We not have to stay there anymore.”

He shook his head, tears welling in his eyes. “You don’t understand,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “I remember how it used to be. We had close ties with the priest. He always led sermons in the village centre every other season. He organised the whole Horn sacrifice thing.” He looked her in the eyes. “When we got there, that square was completely overgrown.”

Yorda bit her lip. To her, it was clear that Doen was right at the centre of the Queen’s schemes. She wondered if that was why it died out after the Castle collapsed. With the sacrifice ended, there was no use for the village anymore. The fact his mother still insisted on living there baffled her, to some degree.  _ Did his father know to move on? _

“It must be great,” she said instead. “I hear one person say, ‘Oh, Doen great place. Why everyone not go there?’” She deepened her voice, trying to imitate an old man talking. The sound made her giggle a little.

Ico threw himself around her, and sobbed. He allowed all of it to surface. The frustration at his bullhorns, the anxiety of the Matador, and for this moment, the loss of his hometown. At least his mother was safe, he hoped. He felt certain of that. Yorda wrapped her silky arms around him.

“There,” she whispered, stroking his hair. “We be okay. You have me. I have you.”

He let go, sniffled a little while his voice steadied. “I guess I found my closure,” he joked. “A bit too much closure, in fact.”

She smiled, planting a kiss on his forehead. “I bet you I get too much closure from Sullovar, when we go there,” she said, standing and returning to her bed. She had hoped they’d get a single bed, but only the doubles were available. She slid into her bed covers, giving Ico one final look, before closing her eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

The boy wandered through the markets of Krollik, holding his mother’s hand. He wore a thick, woolly hat over his hair, to hide the little horns growing from his head. So far, nobody had even given them a funny look. But experience from the mainland had taught the boy to be wary of everyone. “Mamma,” he whispered. “When are we going back home?”

“Not for a while, Cantu,” said his mother nervously. “Not until it’s safe for you.”

“Is it because of my horns?”

His mother paused, her face hidden under an indigo veil. Cantu heard her stifle a sob, struggling to form words. Everyone around them, mostly burly men with hairy arms and faces glared at her. She took her little boy all this way to avoid attention. Now there was no escape, it felt.

“Cheer up, mamma,” he said with a beam. “I know how to fix this!”

“No you don’t!” his mother cried, turning to him with fire burning in her eyes. “You have no idea how much people want to hurt you!”

“Mamma, I know how to make the horns go away.”

The light flickered out.

“I met this man,” he said, “who knew how to make me good. He told me to come find you. There’s a thing he, um…” What did he say? “A place that cures horns.” Yeah, something like that.

A tear caught in her eye, refusing to leave. “Where is this place?”

“Right here in Krollik!”

A gentle breeze passed through Tidemoon Harbour. Eles felt it blow through his hair, making its way into the port town behind him. He turned, and saw the familiar faces of Ico and Yorda walking side by side, hand in hand, like two children on their first date. He gave them a smile. “Took you long enough,” he said. “Wasn’t sure you were gonna make it!”

“To be fair,” Ico replied with a nervous grin, “we didn’t have anything to trade. Well, except the clothes on our backs, but we’d rather keep those.”

“We promise you free turnip,” added Yorda with an innocent grin. “Or fresh turnip soup, if you like.”

Eles folded his arms and chuckled. “Alright, where you two headed? We can agree on a price.”

Yorda’s face deflated. “We’re heading to Sullovar,” said Ico, giving his wife a shrug.

“Oh, good choice,” said Eles, losing the smile. “Listen, I went to Arskel a few days ago, and it’s gone mad! This Matador fellow’s turning it into his own religious sect.” He looked behind him, to the open sea ahead. “Quite frankly, you’d better get as far away from him as possible.”

“We not run forever,” replied Yorda. “Our destiny tied with Matador. I tell you on journey.” She paused, glancing between Ico and Eles. “You consider discount for refugees?”

Eles snorted, pointing to the ship with his thumb. “Thirty gold pieces each,” he promised.

The two looked at each other and shrugged. “Sounds like it’s in budget,” said Ico.

She was christened the Golden Bough, yet not a single fleck of gold decorated her. The figurehead was made from iron, and had corroded beyond recognition over the years. Still, Ico had to admit there was something weirdly charming about the lumpy, barnacle-infested shape of a once-beautiful woman hanging from the bow.

The Bough was clearly a trade ship, and wasn’t really designed to accommodate commercial travel. He and Yorda were given little to do besides lounge around, stay out of the way, and tighten some knots around the deck whenever asked. The crew were pretty efficient, getting a lot done with only five people at a time. Even Eles, who clearly knew these crewmembers by heart, found himself with a lot of free time.

He spent that time sitting with Ico, watching Yorda from a distance sit on the starboard side, kicking her legs over the edge. “I saw the fire from Doen,” he said gently. “Sorry, man. Can’t imagine how that must feel.”

Ico gave him a shrug. “It was dead anyway. My mother got out, so that’s all that matters.” He sighed. “It’s a fitting end, truth be told. Most horned children in the land came from my village.” He laughed spitefully.

“I saw this horned kid once,” he said. “I was just a boy, helping my dad sell some lumber to some land I can’t remember the name of.”

“Krollik?”

“Nah, it was small. Kinda poor.” He waved his hand. “Anyway, the people living there seemed totally clueless about the whole sacrificial custom. You could see the Castle there, but you’d need to visit the mainland to actually go inside.” He shrugged. “Guess some escaped the queen’s scheme.”

Ico gave a small nod.

“Actually,” Eles added with a pointed finger, “what was her whole scheme?” The shadow from his straw hat seemed only to compliment the intrigue on his face. He turned towards Yorda, cupping his mouth in both hands. “Hey, Yorda! Got a question!”

Slowly, Yorda crossed the deck, nearly walking into a burly tanned man carrying a long plank over his left shoulder. She stopped to admire the near-miss, and the man himself. “Watch out, Ico,” she joked. “I not see men  _ this _ well-made.”

“Yorda,” said Eles, “Ico tells me you were the queen’s actual daughter. Her own flesh and blood.”

Yorda nodded, giving Ico a puzzled glance. “What of it?”

“You know what her whole deal was with horned kids?”

She sighed, motioning for Ico to shuffle aside. She dropped between the two men, taking a deep breath. This was going to be a long explanation, even for someone fluent in the language. “My mother fear death,” she began. “She had great magic and great power, but power not hide age. She grow older, and try look for way to live longer. To hide from death.”

Eles’ lip pursed. “Cardinal sin, that. Went to a sermon from Lord Emon the Fifth, and he kept banging on about how cheating death is a betrayal of nature, a violation that brings only evil.” He paused. “Those were his exact words, if I remember correctly.”

“Right,” said Yorda. “She cheat death, but do bad thing. Horned children, they have magic. Magic she use to prolong life. It not work great. Each child give her ten years. Still, she grow weary, haggard and old. She alive, but not living.” She sighed, breaking off eye contact. “Fortunately, there one thing she do to start over. To be young again.”

“Possess her own daughter,” whispered Ico to himself.

Yorda’s eyes closed. “She lock me up, charge me up with magic from horned children, like fattening turkey. Then, when I be adult, freeze me, take body, and live anew.” There was anger in her words. A sense of betrayal and anguish. Her voice started to break. “If not for Ico, I not be here.” She took another sigh, letting out an accidental sob. “ _ What kind of mother does that? I wasn’t a daughter to be loved. I was just a lamb to the altar. _ ”

“Yorda,” said Ico gently.

“ _ Enough! _ ” She stood up, facing the two with teary eyes. “ _ You know what hurts the most? She told me as a child that I was going to inherit her Queendom when she died. When she died. Ha! She just kept begging for more, and more! I don’t think she ever loved me! She wasn’t capable of love! Everything and everyone was a tool to her! _ ” The sobs took over, and Yorda sunk to her knees. “ _ But she was the only one who understood me _ ,” she gasped, sinking into Ico’s lap. “ _ Even you, the first person to ever love me, you don’t know how I think. I try to speak on your level, because nobody can speak on mine. _ ”

Ico gently, awkwardly, stroked his fingers through her hair. In her anguish, her hat fell onto the deck, and was whisked away by the wind. None of the three noticed it disappear. Ico tried to find the right words to say. But after a long, alien rant like that, he had none. He settled for a kiss on her forehead, pulling her up for a tight hug.

Yorda tried to embrace his hug. But deep down, both of them knew it wasn’t enough to make it right. Nothing ever would be.

A stench filled the streets of Arskel. Ever since the Matador came to town, cows and bulls were regularly sacrificed in the central plaza, their blood staining the stonework. Rather than cut them up for beef, they were left to rot in the back alleys. Toto never stayed to find out why; in fact, his visits to town were getting less frequent. If he had to guess, each cow killed meant a horned child spared, or something like that.

He stayed on the farm, keeping a sharp eye out for anyone from his cult heading his way. If there was, he led the cows into the woods, only bringing them back to the pen once he was certain those psychos were gone. A part of him considered just letting them go. Demand for milk was falling, after all. He’d bought a bronze telescope for the job. When this was over, he considered giving it to Ico.

As he watched, the Matador guided a procession up a hill surrounding Arskel. A cage sat at the top, veiled in crimson sheets. Something metal gleamed on his waist. Men hammered timpani drums just out of sight. Even for his sacrifices, this was excessive. “Oh, wait,” he mumbled to himself. “They’re not just killing any old cow this time.” His tone was even and unfazed, as if this was normal for the town by now.

The Matador addressed the crowd, gesticulating wildly with his arms and screaming his words. Toto couldn’t hear any of it, of course, but he saw him mouth the words “Peace” and “Justice” a few times, which was never a good sign. He held the metal thing overhead, revealing it to be a long sword with an emerald embedded into the pommel. His arms fell, the drumming intensified, and he strode slowly to the cage. “Ugh, hurry up,” he said. “Put us all out of our misery.”

With a leather-clad hand, he grabbed the crimson sheets, throwing it aside dramatically. He lifted his sword in both hands, as the crowd gasped so loudly Toto could hear it. The Matador paused, as he stared into an empty cage, the door hanging wide open.

Toto smirked. “There we go,” he said to himself, turning away from the telescope. Whistling a tune to himself, he strode to the bullpen. There, under a mound of compost, lay the bullman, his horns poking out quite obviously. “Kay, get up,” he barked. “We probably have about an hour before they come knocking here. Matador's been suspicious of me since day one.”

The bullman rose, dusting off the dirt. He stood naked, though thankfully his body had been rendered unrecognisable by… well, whatever it was. His chest was clearly a man’s, as were his eyes, but nearly everything else belonged on a cow. “Thank you,” he said slowly, on the verge of tears. “Why do this, though? You’re only putting yourself in danger.”

Toto shrugged, leading him out. On a whim, he took the other cows with him. Screw it, the less bullcrap he had on him now, the better. “You remind me of a friend,” he said coolly, leaving Ico and Yorda’s farm. “Sides, anyone who’s so quick to kill folks like you clearly forgot what makes us human.”

Together, they entered the forest veil, where birdsong and flowing rivers distracted them from the chaos down the road. “I am still in danger, you know,” the bullman said. “With every day, the Matador’s influence grows. Everywhere else, the old suspicions of horned children lingers still.”

“Yeah, I know.” Toto sighed, stopping his walk. “Look, I’d love to come with you, make sure you’re okay, but I got my friend’s farm to look after.” He gave a passing look to the cows, envied how clueless they were to this whole debacle. “These aren’t even my cows.” An idea struck him. “Could you keep an eye on these girls?”

The bullman snorted. “It’s the least I can do. They’re not quite my kin, but we share a common ground.”

Toto smiled, patting him on the back. “Best advice I can give,” he said, turning back. “Look for a man with horn stubs, and a woman who never wears shoes. I think your whole ordeal is gonna help them find what they need.” He stopped, turned and gave him a reassuring smile. “And consequently, help you out in turn.”

Toto picked up his improvised tune, leaving the forest. Behind him, he heard hooves recede into the distance. Ahead, the frustrated and confused cries of the townsfolk. The worst part of the day was just about to hit.

A small crew helmed the Bough into the night. Ico and Yorda were given an unused storeroom as a makeshift bedroom, with sacks of flour as a substitute mattress for each of them. Eles considered giving them a hammock, but with only one on hand, he didn’t want to cause any conflict for them.

He stepped onto the main deck, to listen to the gentle lapping of the sea against the hull, and bask at the beautiful moonlit sky above. Far away from the kingdoms of man, there was still peace left in the world. Perhaps nobody could appreciate that more than him. After all, fish still fought for survival below the sea, and gulls undertook harrowing journeys through the air. But still, it put his mind at ease, at least a little.

Someone sat near the mast, curled up in a ball. He approached, finding it to be Yorda. Her eyes struggled to stay open, yet she sat restless. “You not sleep too?” she whispered with a creaky voice.

“Never really do,” Eles replied, sitting next to her. “What’s up?”

She gave a sigh. “Hard to explain. If Ico not understand, you not understand.” She paused. “No mean to insult.”

He shrugged. “Got it. You’re a magical fairy princess. Can’t imagine there’s many of those around.”

Yorda scoffed. “Nowhere except Sullovar.”

Eles cocked an eyebrow. “Who might that be?”

“Mayoress,” she said. “She speak my language. Help me be woman I am now.” Her eyes drifted back to her knees. She wore a simple nightgown covering them up, yet she could just about see the shape of her knees through the fabric. “After today, I need someone to talk to. Someone understand me.”

“I get it,” Eles whispered. “Does Ico know?”

She shook her head. “I not tell him about mayoress. Not about language. I leave it for so long, what he think if I say now?” She blinked. “Stupid, huh?”

“Just a little.”

That earned a laugh from her. “He not be so harsh as you,” she said. “I love him, but he too nice.”

“Married men normally are,” Eles said. “Course, they only bad mouth their wives if they don’t think she’s listening.” He bit his lip and glanced at Yorda. “It’s normally stupid stuff, like complaining about the colour of their dresses, or how they always nag.”

Yorda smiled to herself. “Do wives go drink, and complain about men?”

“I wouldn’t know that,” Eles admitted. “Maybe you should try it when this blows over.”

“Ha, yeah.” She leaned against the mast and pushed herself to her feet. Perhaps another attempt to sleep couldn’t hurt. “Well, goodnight.”

“Oh, one more thing,” added Eles hurriedly.

“Hmm?” Already she could feel her body grow tired once again. He better make this quick.

“Do you ever wear shoes?” He sounded passively intrigued, with maybe a slight hint of genuine curiosity lacing his words.

Yorda shook her head. “Not when I can,” she said. “People say it gross, I hurt feet or whatever, but it just feel right.” She shrugged. “When you walk in snow without shoes, you not need shoes.”

His eyes widened with surprise. Before he could say anything, Yorda simply flashed him a smug smile. “Goodnight, Eles,” she said again, returning to the bedroom. He watched her go, closing the door behind her. That woman was much tougher than she appeared.

“Maybe I should tell ‘em about the hammock,” he said to himself.

When Ico first saw Sullovar, he thought it looked like a huge, layered cake. Cylindrical tiers of chalk stone walls, adorned by lush forests, stacked atop each other, with a grand mansion overlooking it all. That was eight years ago. So much had changed, and he’d seen how ugly the world really was.  _ Has the Matador been there too?  _ he thought to himself.  _ Will they recognise us, welcome us back? Or are horned children the enemy there, too? _

Still, as that stone cake appeared on the horizon, he couldn’t help but crack a smile. Yorda sniggered. “Feels like home,” she said softly.

“Yeah,” said Ico, tightening the turban around his head. “Sorta reminds me of the Castle, and what it could’ve been.”

Yorda shook her head. “Castle too small for this.” She stood on the prow, her hands behind her back, her grey hair billowing in the wind. Without the sun hat to weigh it down, she looked almost exactly like she did in that meadow by the Castle windmill. “Still, we are lucky Mother not live here.” The smile briefly faded, as she considered what Sullovar ruled by the Queen would look like.

“Attention, lady and gentleman!” Eles declared behind them, startling them both. “The Golden Bough is about to arrive at the docks of Sullovar. We hope you enjoyed your journey with us, and consider our services again someday.”

“Heh, finally,” said Ico, as the dock came into view. “Feels like we’ve been on this thing for a year.”

“Only two days?” Yorda pointed out, perplexed.

Seagulls encircled the layered city. The sun’s rays bathed the walls in resplendent light, and the sails of docked ships blew and furled in the wind. Yorda could smell salt in the air, as the Bough began to dock. A tear trickled down her eye. “ _ I’m home, _ ” she whispered to herself.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one took a while. I'm hoping to get one more chapter done, and the story will be complete. Might give it a short epilogue, depending on how things go.

**Chapter 5**

The sun painted the docks in amber hues. From where Ico sat, he got a clear view of the whole city, each individual tier, and the crisis-crossing flights of stairs that connected the mayoress’ mansion down to the cheapest of markets. Truly, he had never seen such a large, sprawling place in his short life.

“Enjoying a little break, Ico?”

The Mayoress stood behind him, speckled braids hanging over her shoulder. Each jewel embroidered in her sleeves, every flower knitted into her dress, gave off a comforting-yet-formidable presence. Her advisors knew to take her seriously. Ico still felt a little intimidated by her presence. “S-sorry,” he said sheepishly. “The hay bales are all stored, and I even cleaned all the spare bits away. Thought I’d get a little break before…”

The Mayoress simply smiled, crossing over and taking a seat next to him. “The stable hand isn’t making you work into the night, is he?”

He shook his head hastily. “N-no, not at all,” he said. “I, well, kinda slacked off yesterday, so I wanted to make up for it today.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I mean, it was my offer, though I’ll admit he accepted it pretty, ah, eagerly.” He bit his lips, afraid to say any more.

The Mayoress chuckled, her eyes warm with affection. “I’ll tell him you’ve got tomorrow off,” she purred. “You and Yorda can go down to the third tier, soak in the Solar Carnival. You’ve both worked hard enough.”

“You sure?” Ico waited for her to snap, to say she was kidding, and both of them had to double down on their work. That was how the rest of the staff acted. And yet, her face remained a comforting presence. Could he afford to relax? “Uh, how’s Yorda’s studies going?”

“You’ve done well to teach her the basics,” she said, looking towards the sunset, “but she’s a long way from being able to hold a conversation.” Her eyes glanced over to him. “She’s made it clear how frustrated she is that you two can’t just talk to each other.”

His eyes cast towards the ground, at a little blade of grass between his boots. “When we were in the castle,” he muttered, “it was fine. We both had the same goal. Now we’re out, that goal’s met, we don’t really have that connection.” His voice broke as he spoke, which made him wince a little. “I can’t stop thinking about her, Ma’am. Is that wrong?”

“She talks about you a lot,” she said, watching from her peripheral as his head shot up. “She’s even worried that she talks too much about you.” The corners of her mouth curled.

Ico’s heart fluttered. “Any way I can help her?”

“Just be patient, Ico,” she whispered. “One day, you will understand her. And she, you.”

The two sat, watching the sun’s rays disappear from the ocean, hiding the docked ships in shadow. Ico’s stomach rumbled. The thought to get up and eat crossed his mind, but the bench was just too cozy to leave.

“Hey, you’re a scholar, aren’t you?” he said, turning to face the Mayoress. “Is there anything you know about… us?” He pointed at the nubs in his hair. Despite his best wishes, they were still plain for everyone to see. At least they hadn’t grown back.

“Nothing reliable,” she said. “All I know for sure is that horned children are a rare occurrence. Sometimes one is born every hundred years. In some places, five can be born in just three months. Religious experts offer their perspectives on why, but… I don’t think there is a why.”

Ico creased his brow. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” she added, “there’s no big divine reason horned children are born. They just are. You are simply a fact of life, just like I am born a woman, and certain children are born without an arm or an eye.” She smiled, standing up. “Now come, we’re having gammon.”

Ico took her hand and returned to the mansion. His mind buzzed with further questions. Why did the Queen want horned children? Why did people especially hate horned children over simple crippled kids? He didn’t get another chance to ask that night. As soon as he sat by Yorda, those thoughts receded to the deepest parts of his mind, and went undisturbed for the next two years.

Even at night, the chalk walls of Sullovar’s tiers shone, reflecting the lights of lanterns and houses. By day, the city was often a blinding white blob, with only multi-coloured bunting to help distinguish where one was. There were four tiers in all, and the lowest was verdant in greenery and farmland. It was in the next tier that all the buildings, opulent as they were, started to bleed together.

The people wore peachy robes and togas, although the hue was incredibly faint, and they still disappeared in their environment. Yorda looked down at herself, noting the slight contrast between her khaki shorts and the white cobbles underfoot. “Hey, Ico,” she jested. “Can you see me?”

Ico laughed, which only grew as the memory returned. “Oh Gods, you remember that?!” His head threw back as he laughed, his hand rubbing the back of his neck as he blushed with embarrassment. “Look, it was the Solar Carnival, your dress was as white as everyone’s-”

Now Yorda laughed, patting him on the back. “It’s okay,” she purred. “Yes, I get lost that day, I cry and feel scared. It first time since Castle I alone.” The smile faded, and she shrugged a little. “In weird way, I’m glad it happen. When I get lost after, I not so scared.”

Ico looked up at the mansion’s east-facing facade. It occupied the whole fourth tier, surpassing even the wealthiest of the city. Lucky for him, free passage was allowed between the classes from tier to tier. They took the stairs to the third tier, and heard the familiar sound of strings and wind instruments. The two turned to each other in surprise.

“Another carnival?” Yorda asked.

“Why not?” Ico shrugged. “The Mayoress is probably there. Saves us the hassle of going through the gates.”

With that excuse, the two ran the rest of the way. The stairs opened into a wide plaza, packed with people from nations beyond Sullovar. Stalls circled the city fountain, selling hats, satchels and sandals. On agreement, the two split, with Ico perusing a weapons and tools stall. A short spear caught his eye, along with a rake at the other end.

“You like what you see, eh?” The shopkeeper smiled through his crusted, curly beard. His accent was thick with a Krollik accent. “Are you a huntsman, by any chance?”

Ico shook his head. “Nah, farmer. I’ve done enough fighting for one lifetime.” He laughed, thinking back to the shadow creatures, and their Queen, from the Castle. There was nothing satisfying about fighting them. Just an ever-lingering fear they would return, when he least expected it.

“Ho ho, you talk a good talk.” He stepped aside, revealing a small shelf of small tools; mostly trowels, but with a long rake at the centre, and a little tin watering can sat stout at the bottom. “What’s your produce, eh?”

“Oh, just cows and some wheat,” Ico replied. “Mostly cows.” The irony that he, a horned child, grew up to farm cows, was never lost on him. Yorda still cracked jokes about it from time to time.

“You saying you don’t need my goods?” The shopkeeper dropped his smile, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, see,” Ico stammered, “we’re kinda travelling right now, so we gotta keep our purse strings tight. Could I find your wares again after the…”

The shopkeeper had turned away, talking to a short lady who couldn’t quite see above the stall’s front. _Never haggle with a farmer from a mining town,_ he thought. Ico hung his head in shame, turned and bumped into Yorda. The blow knocked something off her. She flailed wildly to catch it. Ico recovered to see her plop a new, cotton sun hat on her head. It was a rich ebony, with a fake tulip sewn into it.

“You like?” she asked.

Ico paused, taking it in. “Well, yeah,” he said. “Looks a bit, I dunno, dark for you.”

She took it off, looking at it with sadness in her eyes. “Yes,” she whispered. “It fit mother more than me.” She blinked, and the sad glimmer vanished. “But it cheap,” she added with a joyous smile, putting it back on. “Get anything?”

Ico shook his head. “Didn’t see anything interesting,” he said. “Anyway, we’re not here to shop.” He turned and scanned the crowd. It was easy enough identifying tourists and merchants from other lands. Unfortunately, he couldn’t see a single jewel of the Mayoress’ formal gown. Was she even there? It only made sense for her to attend the carnival, didn’t it?

The music came to a natural stop, naturally followed by an applause. As Ico watched, the crowd dispersed a little, revealing a little podium right by the fountain. “Yorda,” he hissed. “I think she’s coming!”

The two stood amidst the stalls, hoping to get the best view of the podium they could. As they watched, a robed figure took the stage. Their robe was pretty simple, crafted from violet velvet, the details of which neither vagabond could really see. It wasn’t something they’d ever seen the Mayoress wear, nor was it something unbecoming of her. “ _ I wonder how old she is _ ,” Yorda muttered to herself.

“What’s that, Yorda?” asked Ico.

“Shush!” hissed his wife. Indeed, the crowd had now fallen fully silent. The figure’s hands reached towards their hood, leaving every gathered body in growing suspense. Their fingers hooked around the fabric, gently pulling it back. A thin, dark goatee emerged in the sunlight forest, along with an angular chin, large eyebrows and an even larger nose. “My name is Linsun Aledite,” boomed a deep, resonant voice from the figure, “and I am the Mayor of Sullovar!”

A cheer rose from the crowd, which only Ico attempted to share. In his peripheral, he noticed Yorda turn her head and look at her arm. Slowly, the reality of the reveal hit Ico. The Mayoress they’d grown up with was no longer in charge. “Yorda,” he whispered, but the noise of the crowd drowned his words. She made her way to the stairs down to the second tier, and reluctantly, he followed.

The festivity didn’t seem to spread to the second tier. Kids ran through the streets, merchants bellowed new discounts on especially large melons, but the overall atmosphere was much quieter than upstairs. Yorda dragged her feet as she walked, her ebony sunhat facing the ground. “Yorda,” Ico repeated, “maybe it’ll be okay.”

She stopped and shook her head. “I tell you about Mayoress, right?” she whispered with a cracking voice. A bench appeared in her peripheral, and she dragged herself onto it.

“Yeah,” Ico replied, wrapping his arm around her. “She spoke your language, didn’t she?” With each word he said, he understood her despair. “Oh, right,” he muttered.

“It selfish,” said Yorda, burying her face in her hands. “I know we here to stop Matador for you. But I here for me. To be with person who speaks my language. But if she is gone, then I…” She turned to Ico, her face flush with tears. “I’m only half a person,” she wailed, wrapping herself around him.

Ico meekly stroked her neck.  _ Half a person?  _ he wondered to himself.  _ I get she’s lonely, but what does she mean? _

“ _ Oh, Yorda, _ ” whispered a familiar voice behind them. “ _ I hope everything’s okay. _ ”

Yorda gasped and looked up. Ico cranked his neck, and was met with the welcoming face of the Mayoress, dressed in more simplistic, plain peach robes. “What?!” he screamed. “You’re-”

“Still the Mayoress for one more month,” she replied, just before the two threw themselves over her. “Oh, goodness!” she cried. “I didn’t think you’d miss me that much!”

When he pulled back, even Ico’s face was full of tears. “You’ve no idea what we’ve been through,” he said, struggling to talk clearly.

“I can hazard a guess,” she said with a smile. “The Matador, I assume?”

Both travellers nodded. “ _ Oh, Mayoress, _ ” muttered Yorda, going in for another hug.

The Mayoress chortled elegantly. “My, did I never tell you my real name?” she asked. “It’s Enisa. Enisa Alidite.”

The sight of their shocked faces made her laugh, a little less elegantly. “No relation to the Mayor in Waiting,” she added. “Shall we meet in my manor, one last time?”

“It would be an honour,” said Ico without hesitation.

Taking both Ico and Yorda in each hand, Enisa the Mayoress made for the stairs to the third tier, leaving Yorda’s sunhat on the bench. “Say,” she said to the young woman, “was that ebony bonnet yours, by any chance?”

Her face was still flushed while she filled her cheeks with lettuce. It was a modest meal, shared by the three on the bench overlooking the tiered city. Ico chose a buttered baguette, while Enisa delicately ate an apple. The thought filled him with a sense of nostalgia, ruined only by the afternoon sun. All he needed was an orange sky, and he’d be taken back by eight years.

“I’ve missed this,” said Enisa with a sigh.

“Yeah,” Ico muttered, looking at the afternoon sun with poorly hidden disappointment. “Sometimes I wonder why we even left.”

“You were becoming adults,” said Enisa, taking another bite. “You were outgrowing the need for my care, so I let you make your own way.” She turned to Ico. “How’s that going, by the way?” She paused. “Before the Matador, I mean.”

Ico responded with a shrug. “Pretty good,” he said, thinking back to their first day in Arskel. “Me and Yorda got married, finally.”

“Oh really?” Enisa let out a childish squeal, before clearing her throat and replacing it with a small smile. “I knew you’d do it someday.”

“Mhm,” replied Yorda, amidst crunches of her lettuce. Her eyes were hidden by the black brim of her hat. “We make money for big wedding, say vows on beautiful island, and put up first farm for foreclosure after honeymoon.” She chuckled. “I regret nothing.”

“At least one third of the budget went to the cake,” Ico added with a guffaw of his own. “It tasted nice. The bits that were edible, at least.”

“We get new farm,” Yorda added, her smile slowly dropping, “and leave it after five months.” She grabbed another lettuce leaf, savouring every crunchy bite of it.

Ico took the last bite of his baguette, and looked Enisa in the eyes. “I know we can’t stay here,” he said to her, “but where else can we go? If we go back, he’ll figure that I had horns, and…” The rest of his words caught in his throat.

“I have heard about his crusade,” said the Mayoress softly. “Children with horns locked up in cages, just in case one of them grows to become a bull-man.” She glanced at Ico, who stared ahead at the view. “I didn’t know about bull-men until recently.”

Both Enisa and Yorda waited for Ico to reply.

“Are they bad?” Yorda eventually asked.

“Nah, nah,” Enisa said, almost dismissive. “Truth be told, bull-men aren’t a natural evolution of horned children. The only known sightings of them was in Krollik, and I only know of three seen there.” She leaned forwards and looked Ico in the eye. “Perhaps the bull-man in Arskel was one of them.”

That got his attention. “Any idea why?” he asked, finally facing her.

“All I know is that there’s something magic deep within the mines. Some kind of construct by my people. I daresay the Queen knew about it.” Now it was Enisa’s turn to look down at herself. “ _ Yorda, _ ” she whispered, “ _ I am not proud of my heritage. Part of me wonders if Linsun is a better fit for Mayor than I ever was. _ ”

Yorda placed her free hand on Enisa’s cheek, drawing her attention. “ _ My mother was a cruel, sadistic monster, _ ” she whispered back. “ _ You’ve taught me that I don’t need to be the same as her. _ ”

“ _ Yeah, _ ” she said softly, throwing the apple behind her. “I’m afraid that’s all I can help you with,” she added, getting control over her voice. “But, before I send you off to face your destiny in Krollik, how about one last night in the Mayoress’ Mansion?” She stood up, offering her hands to both.

“How’s that going to help us with the Matador?” Ico asked.

She met him with another smile. This wasn’t a smile of kindness, however. There was something knowing about it. “Well, the Matador had to get his little bull-man from _somewhere,_ ” she told him, helping the two to their feet. The three looked up together, at the stained glass windows facing from her mansion.

***

_ Yorda stared at the open gate, and the inky mist beyond. Nothing waited for her outside the castle. No bridges reached into that vast unknown. Nobody stood by her side. _

_ Then she felt a presence, and looked up to the familiar face of her mother. "You see the darkness of the outside world," she said, her voice cold and articulate. _

_ "Mother," Yorda gasped, sinking to her knees. "You, you're wrong! I-" _

_ "You will know your place." Her mother's voice never rose in tone or volume. "Today, you were told that I built a labyrinth in the outside world. Yorda, I forbid you from entering it. You will make no attempt at finding it." _

_ Her mother's face disappeared, leaving Yorda alone, on her knees, surrounded by nothing. _

When Yorda awoke, it wasn't with a loud scream. Her consciousness returned, flooded with memories of the dream, growing abstract by the second. She remembered the thatched roof of the Krollik inn they'd stayed in, along with the stone decor of their room. She saw Ico lying in his bed, possibly still asleep.

Then, she cried.

It wasn't a gentle cry, like after their pet rabbit getting slaughtered in a nearby hunt. It was a full-on panicked cry. Her face was red with tears, and her lungs pumped out air faster than she could breathe it in. "Ico," she gasped, trying to control her choking.

Before she knew it, she felt his arms around her neck. Yorda buried her face in his chest, and howled in fear. With each sob, her lungs gained back a sliver of control. Her nails eased their grip of his biceps. Finally, with the odd breathing spasm, she pulled back.

"What happened?" Ico asked, his voice gentle and slow.

"I… I see her," Yorda stuttered. "Mother, she speak to me in dream."

"The Queen?" Ico asked, genuinely puzzled. She'd had dreams like this before, mostly around the time of their escape. He thought they'd faded over time. None of them reduced her to a mess like this. "What happened?"

"She…" Yorda took a deep breath, wiped her nose, and tried again. "She tell me not to go to labyrinth. No, it was order. I  _ will not _ go to labyrinth."

Ico sat next to her on the bed, looking into her strained eyes. "It's your choice, Yorda," he whispered. He knew that it wasn't much of a choice. They'd both seen the Matador's name scrawled onto posters by the port. Eles had told them about the Hornhunters coming from Arskel. But if it meant sparing his wife the trauma, he would seek out what few options they had.

"She order me," Yorda continued, "I not leave home. I stay in cage, forget outside world, and not interfere with Ritual." She chuckled through the tears. "We know how bad I am with rules."

Ico laughed back. "For better and worse." She had grown better at following rules as a grownup, but she still wasn't graceful about it.

"Yes," she continued. "It scare me then, too, but look what I become. This scares me more than that. But if it mean proving her wrong…" She stood up and looked out the window. "Then I will find her labyrinth, and break her last rule."

"Yorda…" Ico muttered, relieved by her resolve, and a little surprised.

"I brought my dress from home," Yorda continued. "I hope she sees me wear it, one last time?"

Krollik was built into a large cavern from a wide chasm above, nicknamed the Gash. The tourist district was built directly beneath the Gash, allowing it more sunshine than the streets ahead. The rest was well-lit with street lanterns and plenty of roaming fireflies, bathing the town in a dim, orange hue.

With the money they had, Ico bought hand lanterns for both of them. "We ought to ask around for this labyrinth," Ico suggested.

"No use," replied Yorda, marching ahead in her ethereal dress and continuously bare feet. "Magic place. Mother no let commoners find it."

"Yorda," insisted Ico, "you know how big it is out there? People have died in the dark. It could take us days of searching, even with a cart of some kind!"

Yorda turned. There was a smug grin on her. Her teeth glowed in the lantern's light. "Good that I discover my magic again, yes?" She turned and carried on, strolling through coarse cobblestones without breaking her rhythm.

Ico huffed. "Could you at least share that, and give me some idea of what we're looking for?" He caught up with Yorda, noticing the eager look in her eyes. They were winding through a thin avenue of miner's huts, but she had a confident look about her.

"Oh, yes," she muttered, dropping her gaze ahead. "Sorry, Enisa teach me how to get magic back. Says I need it for navigating." She offered her hand. "I ask for map, but she say I rely on myself to find it."

"How helpful," he groaned, taking it. "No offence, but-"

His palm slid into hers. Fingers locked. All at once, he felt the comfort of her touch, just as strong as it was in the Castle. He hadn't felt this overwhelmed by Yorda's presence since that fateful day.

Then he saw it.

A row of cubic statues, ten in all, housing horned children crying in their knees. A lone glowing sofa, overlooking a little slope to inky darkness above. The towering walls of a stone construct.

And he knew exactly where it was.

Ico let go of Yorda's hand and stumbled backwards. His back slammed into a wall, knocking a pickaxe onto the floor. The two looked at it. Ico looked at Yorda, and the ethereal dress she wore, the peachy hair hiding pointed ears. Yorda looked at Ico, and the red shirt he wore, the cotton trousers tucked into winter boots, and the velvet turban hiding his nubs.

She approached him, gently grabbing the fabric of the turban and unwinding it. His dark, messy hair emerged, and the broken nubs of horn nestled within. She held the cloth in her hands and looked at it for a while. It was the same shade of her old, tattered shawl. She threw it over her shoulders and smiled to herself. "If only it was anniversary," she said, half-joking.

Ico picked up the pickaxe, immediately reminded of the shadows that pursued them. The spirits that he cut down. "I've missed this," he whispered, looking at the infinite darkness ahead. He took Yorda's hand, and felt his heart ease with a million forms of hope. "Lead the way."

" _ With pleasure, _ " whispered Yorda, taking her first steps into the dark beyond.

The cows were nicer to the bullman than any person had been. He slept with the herd, hiding his bulk within them. Every day he spent guiding them further away from society, the more relaxed he felt. "I don't want to be a man among men anymore," he said to himself one day. "I am with my tribe. I am home."

The sensation flowed through his dreams, lingering like a blissful haze as his eyes opened. They had slept on a hill, overlooking a small hamlet. Now, as consciousness returned, he stared into the silver prongs of a pitchfork.

The bullman stood up with a gasp. Two men surrounded the herd. The oldest held the pitchfork, while the younger man watched with glee. "I told ye, da'!" he cheered. "Les' take 'um to th' Matador!"

"Oh, no need," snarled the older man. "Your ma's been tormented by these abominations beyond the grave. You and me, boy, we'll avenge her."

He tightened the grip of his pitchfork.


End file.
